


In Production

by ladyfoxxx



Series: Movie 'Verse [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Used, Umbrella Academy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: bandombigbang, Explicit Sexual Content, Film making, M/M, Movie Creation, Umbrella Academy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 68,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfoxxx/pseuds/ladyfoxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The AU where bandom are filmmakers and Gerard is directing the Umbrella Academy movie. Brian is the distractingly hot stuntman, Pete is the producer, Patrick is the studio babysitter and everyone gets lucky at the wrap party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Production

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Bandom Big Bang](http://community.livejournal.com/bandombigbang/) challenge, 2010.

There's a whiteboard in the production office, double sided. Most of the time it's turned with the schedule side facing the room, but when the Heads Of Department aren't around it gets flipped over, displaying a complicated chart of interlocking lines and names. Marie, the production secretary, keeps it up-to-date with a lot of help from the ADs and accounts department.

It's a record of all the on-location hookups that have happened since Umbrella Academy started filming. It's extremely accurate too, because Marie doesn't do anything by halves. When the production runner lets her know they had another "dirty stop-out" last night, and the key grip's hire car spent the night parked outside of the A camera assistant's accommodation, Marie adds them to the board, connecting their names in green whiteboard marker. There's a titter of amusement across the bullpen when she caps her pen.

Gerard knows about the chart. Mikey told him, because as his director's assistant it's Mikey's job to know about _everything_ Gerard needs to know about, but doesn't have time to find out. Thank god for Mikey. Gerard doesn't really mind that the chart exists; with twelve hour days minimum, and a shooting schedule that's more suited to a telemovie than a fifty million dollar budget feature film, the crew deserve whatever entertainment they can find. He won’t begrudge them that.

They're good people, all of them. Committed and working their fucking asses off in the middle of nowhere, away from their homes and families - all to bring his vision to the screen. Even with months of pre-production to get used the idea, it still scares the hell out of him. He hopes, not for the first or the last time, that he can pull this off.

One more thing Gerard knows about that whiteboard chart: his name isn't on it. Which is exactly as it should be. He has far too much to take care of to have a social life right now and, while that kind of behavior that might be fine for the A camera assistant, it's not befitting of a director in the middle of a shoot. Not that he has time anyway; Mikey's got his days scheduled down to fifteen minute increments and they are only in their third week of principal photography. He's using one of his "sanity time" increments right now, re-checking his shotlists and scribbling notes all over his shooting script.

He's due on set soon, he knows it, but he doesn't have to watch the clock because Mikey will come and get him. Fuck nepotism, Mikey is damn good at his job. He'll make an amazing producer one day and Gerard can't help but fear that day, because he's not sure how he's going to survive without him.

He sighs and leans back in his chair, thankful for the air conditioning in his trailer which keeps the damp heat of the Australian Gold Coast at bay. He stretches his arms up, working the kinks out of his back. He's brushed over his notes enough. It's all in his head anyway, the whole film, he just has to make it tangible.

The harsh static of a radio outside his door heralds Mikey's arrival before the soft tap of his knuckles. Gerard calls a soft "Yeah" to his brother and Mikey's head pokes through the door, focused as always.

"Ray's ready for you. Lighting's nearly set. We've got about three minutes."

"Sure." Gerard gets himself upright, buzzing and ready to shoot, bouncing on his toes.

They hustle out of the trailer and head for Stage Five, moving at Mikey's natural speed, which is at least thirty per cent faster than most people's. Mikey unclips the Motorola from his belt and announces, "We're travelling," into it.

They pass through a mass of moving bodies as they cross the studios. There's crew everywhere, carrying gear and clipboards and props, some cycling, some walking. It's a cargo pants-wearing army of creatives and grunts. Gerard gets the odd nod, smile and salute, but no one tries to engage him in conversation. They know better. The way to Gerard is through Mikey, and you need to be on the schedule.

The heat makes it feel like they're walking through warm soup, and it isn't any better once they reach set; all the hot lights only add more degrees to the temperature. His Director of Photography, Ray, sees them coming immediately and heads over, corralling them towards a bank of monitors. Ray's hair is buzzed out and staticky from the heat, his face damp with sweat. He's wearing his usual uniform of battered jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves sliced off, which Gerard is considering adopting for himself more and more as each sweltering day passes.

"Now you have to imagine it with about four points warmer," Ray says, and Gerard knows what he means in principle if not in practice. His breath catches in his throat as he turns his gaze to the bank of three monitors, each showing a different camera angle on the lit set. There it is; Sir Reginald Hargreeves study. Exactly as he saw it in his head.

He witnessed the set come together piece by piece over a matter of days, Frank's design slowly taking form in wood, plaster and paint, but this is the first time he's seen it look frame-perfect . Ray's lighting arrangement picks out the highlights and cast shadows, drawing focus to the ornate woodwork and perfectly shaped wallpaper designs that started as pencil sketches in coffee-fuelled meetings a lifetime ago. Consummately placed backlights pick out the graceful silhouettes of well chosen props, bringing the set to life in light, dark and in between.

"Jesus Ray, it's perfect. I don't know how you do it man, it's like you're seeing inside my head ." Gerard's eyes devour the images before him, one of his hands fluttering up to rifle through his hair the way it always does when he's processing.

"Can we get a stand-in in there?" he asks. Ray signals the Spaceboy stand-in and Gerard gets to see how the lighting interacts with a player. It's seriously spot on.

Ray being Ray, perfect isn't enough. "Worm! Spot down that 4K, I'm still getting spill - and get a cutter on that four-fifty, it's killing my shadows."

The First Assistant Director Joe Trohman steps into the fray. "Ray, you said it was set, we're gonna have talent back from lunch in five."

If Mikey has enough trouble keep Gerard on schedule, Joe's got the bigger problem of trying to keep the whole set running to some vague impression of what's on the daily call sheet. Not that you would ever tell from looking at him; the guy is seriously unflappable, which makes him perfect for the job.

"It's set Joe, it'll be set in like, two minutes." Ray turns swiftly to a tattooed and sweaty gaffer, "Cortez, give Worm a hand will you?"

Matt Cortez drops the mess of cables he was coiling up and hops to, climbing the rigging with the ease of a monkey to where Worm is perched, fiddling with a light that's larger than his torso.

Gerard's still staring at the monitors, seeing the scene play out in flashes on every camera angle. Not for the first time, he feels an intense pride for his crew. He was so lucky to get Ray on this job. They went to film school together years ago, but Ray's star rose much faster than Gerard's. He embraced digital cameras at exactly the right moment, learning how they worked and how to seduce gorgeous images out of them while all the old school DP's were still married to film. When the studios started to switch to digital for budget and efficiency he was ready, with a list of credits as long as his arm and a showreel that could make you weep.

Ray DP'd five films in the space of time it took Gerard to direct and finish _Bullets_. He took a pay cut to work on _Umbrella Academy_ , not just for Gerard but because he believed in the project. Gerard feels thankful for that every single day.

"Right." Gerard shakes himself out of the scene, mentally bookmarking the images, and turning to Joe. "Let me know when we have cast for a rehearsal." Joe nods and gives a half-salute. Gerard pats Ray on the arm in thanks as he passes, but Ray's distracted, pointing madly at some light, trying to communicate with Cortez. Gerard heads for the stairs to the set piece, thinking he'll take the spare few minutes before walkthrough to settle himself and just admire the set.

"Gerard, hold up." Gerard's feet have barely hit the black and white tiled hallway when Pete's voice erases his plans for a peaceful few minutes of contemplation. He stops, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He knows exactly what his producer is about to say and they really, really don't have time to go into this right now. "You still haven't answered me about Schechter." When Gerard turns to face Pete, Pete's expression is one of complete openness and understanding, which Gerard recognizes immediately as his Producer Face.

"I did get back to you. I said no. You not accepting that as an answer doesn't qualify as me not getting back to you." Gerard tries very hard to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Pete is a good producer, one of the best. Gerard was doubtful when the studio all but forced him onto the project, but he's proved himself time and again on _The Umbrella Academy_. He has an innate ability to get great crew on board and keep them. He only takes jobs he's passionate about and he's highly skilled at inciting that same passion in other people.

Unfortunately, the flip side is when he gets his mind set on something he's like a dog with a bone. A really fucking stubborn dog .

"Gee." Pete's still using his producer voice. "We needed to start fight rehearsals a week ago. We are way overdue to lock in a stunt coordinator."

"Not him." The tone in Gerard's voice would have any other crew member cringing. Not Pete. He's cringe-proof.

"Gerard, he-"

"He blew me off Pete. Twice. He's had his chances. We need someone who's committed to the project."

"He is, he is. He couldn't help missing those meetings. He had reshoots for the Nolan gig. He was in fucking Alaska."

Gerard sighs heavily, hand catching in his hair as he runs his fingers through it. Pete senses weakness and goes in for the kill. "If that was our job, you would want that, right? You'd want him to put the reshoots first, even if it meant pissing off his potential next gig?"

Gerard stops playing with his hair long enough to look at Pete. "Don't punish the guy for being professional," Pete argues.

"I just, I don't see why it has to be him - what about Singe r's guy?" Gerard's reaching now and he knows it.

"Do you want the carnival to suck? Because it totally will. Singer's guy can do all that martial arts shit fine, but he can't do explosions or wire work to give a damn. Schechter is the best." Pete says it like it's gospel and it probably is. Pete knows his shit. He's been producing under the Clandestine banner for years and Gerard should just stop pretending he's not going to bend to his will.

"Fine. Set up a meeting," Gerard surrenders, and Pete's smile is smug and completely predictable.

"I've got him on a flight tonight. Lunch meeting - tomorrow." Pete glances at Mikey, ever-present but never in the way, to make sure it goes on the schedule.

Gerard doesn't sigh. Of course Pete knew he would say yes, and of course Pete already had a movement order sent. Sometimes he's too efficient for Gerard's sense of propriety.

"Make it a wrap meeting - Mikey is that open?" Gerard asks and Mikey nods, scribbling it into his diary. "I'd rather it not be rushed."

Pete starts to say something else but Gerard barrels in, "This is a meeting Pete - it doesn't mean we're hiring him."

"Of course Gee, of course." Pete smiles his producer smile and Gerard knows instinctively there is a contract with Schechter's name on it drawn up and probably sitting on the production manager's desk, waiting on a signature. But he doesn't have time to push that shit uphill; Joe's signaling him and a crackly voice on a Motorola confirms the cast have returned. He lets it go; gets lost in the rehearsal, burning through coverage, and Schechter is the last thing on his mind.

***

Three scenes and twelve setups later, they're on the wrap shot of the day. It's a close up of Andy Whitfield, who plays Spaceboy, reacting to the reappearance of The Boy twenty years after he vanished. It's a key shot in a key scene and Andy's so close to hitting it Gerard can almost taste it. He's staring at the actor's image on the screen of his portable clamshell monitor, his headphone-covered ears full of Andy's dialogue clear as bell, and slightly echoed where it's coming directly from the set. Andy's nearly got the inflection, the emotion spot on, but just not quite.

Gerard calls cut at the end of the take and Mikey nudges him, flashing his watch surreptitiously. They're forty five minutes past scheduled wrap. Gerard is desperate for another take, but the crew is about to hit golden time.

As if on cue Pete slides in beside him, outwardly calm but Gerard can see his fingers twitching, the tell that he's starting to wig out. It's Pete's balls that will be in the studio's vice when they get the bill for overtime. Joe hovers in the background, inconspicuously waiting to hear the next move.

"I need one more Pete."

"Do you really, really? Because I thought Andy was doing pretty good. Do you need me to quote figures at you again - two hundred crew on double time..."

"Look Pete, if we can't we can't - Bob can probably piece something together from the last three takes, but I think Andy is about to hit it. The next take is gonna fly, I can tell - it'll make the whole scene, bring it up to the next level."

Pete chews his lip, but Gerard knows he's already won. "Okay, one more. Get moving." Pete nods at Joe and Joe announces "Reset - going for another one" into his radio and the call is echoed around set by the other ADs.

Gerard dashes up into the hot lights of the set to talk to Andy. It takes barely three sentences to tell him what he needs to change and then Joe calls for camera set, the sound recordist announces "speed", Ray rolls camera and they're running another take. Gerard watches from the set, one eye on the monitor and one on Andy and fuck him sideways if Andy doesn't hit it, absolutely nail it.

He's got a huge grin on his face when he calls cut and Andy reflects it right back at him. It was fucking magic. The set is abuzz with good feeling when Joe calls out "That's a wrap! Thanks everyone!" the whole crew attuned to their director's good spirits. It's a good day.

Gerard stops to thank Ray again on his way out. Mikey appears beside him as they leave the set, running through his night schedule.

"Frank still needs you to come by Costume." Mikey doesn't even look up from his sidekick.

"Does it have to be tonight?"

"You've put him off three times. He says he's gonna set up camp in your trailer with five racks of outfits if you don't make it tonight."

"I guess we better go then." Gerard shoots Mikey a grin, still sailing on his high from set.

Mikey just gives one of his not-quite-a-smiles and they climb into the electric buggy, zipping over to the costume department. The cart's speed tops out at about fifteen miles per hour, but that doesn't make the way Mikey drives it any less frightening. When Mikey pulls in sideways outside the demountable building that houses the costume department, Gerard rushes to disembark and fights the urge to kiss solid ground.

Before they even get the doors open Gerard can hear Black Flag blaring from inside the demountable. Frank rarely works without a soundtrack and his choices are usually loud, loud or loud. He's not your average production designer in a lot of ways. His background is in rock n' roll; he got his start designing and rigging sets for big stadium gigs, bands like the Stones. He rolled into Hollywood when Mick Jagger started dabbling in producing films and he wanted a familiar face designing his sets.

From there it was easy to stick around, in Frank's own words, "movies pay more, and now I don't have to keep tearing the sets down and re-rigging them at every new venue." Plus, it gave him the opportunity to take on the costume designer mantle. Not that Frank is the only production designer out there who also covers costume, but they're rare. It's a lot for one person to take on . Frank leans heavily on his team, particularly his art director and fiancée, Jamia. Gerard's always been wary of film couples but Frank and Jamia seem to have it down, a dynamic that works and their personal stuff never crops up when they're on the job.

Jamia's up to her elbows in fabric when Gerard and Mikey enter the department. "Well, look who finally made it. Frank! We have a director!" she shouts through the open doorway into the workshop. Frank emerges, his rock n' roll past still evident in every one of the tattoos visible around his Queensland-heat-beating ensemble of cutoffs and a wifebeater. At odds with the fauxhawk and the ink are the four sewing needles slid into the front of his wifebeater like a pincushion, each one trailing a different colored thread.

"So you didn't want me to set up camp in your trailer, then? I was totally gonna do it, too." Frank talks around the butt of a smoked down cigarette trapped between his lips.

Gerard just smiles and shakes his head. "Maybe next time. What have you got?"

"You're not going to like it," Frank warns as he heads into the workshop, Gerard and Mikey close behind.

The workshop is more of an open shed with air conditioning that doesn't quite cut it. There are sketches and blueprints tacked up all over the walls, plus publicity stills, casting head shots and the odd flyer for a local punk gig. Frank heads straight towards three racks of clothes, an array of black fabric with white details.

"For the orchestra extras," Frank announces, throwing an arm out at the racks. "The studio didn't approve me to bring on more hands for us to make it ourselves, they want us to use hire gear. This is the best I could find from all the suppliers and trust me, I had Jamia contact _all_ of them," Frank explains. He points at each rack in turn, "Best stuff, possible stuff, maybe if you're desperate stuff."

Gerard heart sinks but he shuffles through the "best stuff" rack anyway. It's all so ordinary, not at all what he imagined.

"Is it worth me getting Pete onto this? He could fight it out with the studio, maybe squeeze some more out of them?" Even as Gerard asks he knows it's a long shot.

"Honestly?" Frank shakes his head slowly, "I don't think it's worth it. You want to go begging the execs then make it for something that's worth the humiliation - more bucks for the Icarus or for Terminal's lab."

Gerard pulls a very ordinary tuxedo from the rack and stares at it. Frank's right. He should pick his battles. But it doesn't make it easy. He hates having to compromise his vision.

"Can we do _anything_?" he asks, looking for silver lining.

"Oh shit, yeah Gee, it's not 'what you see is what you get'." Frank steps closer, grabbing the tuxedo from Gerard and waving at it with a freshly lit cigarette, "I'll get my girls on it, we can dress this shit up a bit, bang on some bigger lapels, fuck around with shoulder pads, get some interesting silhouettes going. I mean, it's all black, they're gonna be in the background, probably out of focus half the time and you've got Ray's fucking genius mad lighting to add another hundred thousand to the look of the scene on top of that. It'll sell. Don't worry." He stabs the cigarette into his mouth by way of conclusion, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

Before Gerard even has time to ask, Mikey hands him a cigarette and he lights up too, muttering, "You're right, you're right, of course." Frank just nods enthusiastically, dropping ash all over his shirt and grinning.

Gerard stays another half hour and they work their way methodically through the racks, pulling out the best of the worst and talking about what superficial fixes Frank's team can do to bring the look in line with Gerard's original intentions. By the time he's grasping Frank's shoulder in thanks and heading back to the death-trap of a golf cart with Mikey he's feeling a lot better about the whole thing. Frank really knows his shit.

"Did you want to see Bob before you crash tonight?" Mikey asks as he pulls around a corner. Gerard’s fingers curl into the seat as he hangs on.

"What time is it? Will he still be there?"

"You know he never goes home 'til he's heard from you."

"Yeah, okay. Well if he's not ready to keel over, I'll stop in." Mikey calls ahead, juggling his phone and the steering wheel in a way that makes Gerard dig his fingers into the seat and close his eyes until Mikey's off the call. As usual, Bob is still at the cutting room and, as usual, he would love to see Gerard.

Gerard tries to get to the cutting room every day if he can, even if it's only brief. Not only to see the footage and what Bob's been up to, but just to soak up a bit of the Zen atmosphere the guy gives out. He's like a touchstone.

Bob's cut every one of Gerard's films. He edited _Bullets_ for free on his own gear, collecting the dole to cover his rent and electricity, living on tinned food and his and Gerard's parent’s charity. Gerard never forgot that. He had to fight hard to get Bob on _Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge_ , his first studio film, when Universal was insistent he work with a "seasoned" editor. Gerard compromised on a lot of crew for that film but he did not budge when it came to Bob. In the end he got his way through sheer stubbornness and tenacity.

Bob nearly gave himself a stroke from stress cutting that film, barely sleeping and spending every waking moment at the suite, expecting every day to be fired and replaced by one of Universal's hacks. He might well have been if his Editor's Cut hadn't been so fucking amazing. Gerard barely had to change a frame for the Director's Cut, Bob's edit was that good. After that, the studio stopped grumbling and Bob stopped looking over his shoulder. He put off three other films to keep himself available for _Umbrella Academy_ and Gerard can't imagine anyone else helming his edit.

The rush of air conditioning is a relief as they enter the post production offices. Mikey wanders off to chat with Alicia, the post supervisor, perching on her desk and playing on his sidekick simultaneously. If Gerard were a betting man, he'd lay money on their names appearing on the whiteboard chart at some point. He heads straight for Bob's suite, giving Bob's assistant Spencer a nod on his way past. Gerard's presence in the cutting room is so common it doesn't raise any interest at all.

Bob spins around in his chair as Gerard wanders in and pitches forward to crash face-down onto Bob's very soft, very comfortable couch.

"That good huh?" Bob asks, barely raising an eyebrow.

Gerard slowly turns himself over onto his back. "So what did I fuck up yesterday?" he asks, rolling his head sideways to look at Bob. Bob's perched on his special-expensive-wont-fuck-up-your-back chair, an array of monitors behind him. He scratches his blonde beard thoughtfully, before replying.

"Hmmm... nothing, I think. No, I think you're good." Bob leans back scratching his knee, "You know you owe me cutaways of the newspaper clippings right?" Gerard nods absently. "Then we're fine. No fuck ups."

Gerard fist pumps the air. "On fucking fire," he remarks, with plenty of irony.

"So what's with all the-" Bob waves his hand in the general direction of Gerard's flopped-out self. Because of course Bob knows when something's up, he can read Gerard like subtitles.

Gerard scrubs at his eyes, feeling unreasonably tired all of a sudden. "Pete. He won’t leave me alone about Schechter."

Bob raises an eyebrow at him without moving any other part of his face. "So? Pete's usually right about this stuff, isn't he? What's the problem?"

Gerard sighs. There's no reasonable answer to that question. "Nothing. No problem." He says it resolutely, clawing his hair out of his face and sitting up. "Shall we watch some dailies?"

Bob looks like he wants to say something else, but he sits on it. That's the best thing about Bob, he knows when not to speak. He spins in his chair to face the Avid, calling up a sequence and playing it. They watch yesterday's dailies mostly in silence; Gerard lets Bob know when he likes a take or a line or a moment, and Bob scribbles it down on a log sheet.

When the sequence finishes and the monitor goes black, Gerard feels suddenly tired. He says goodnight to Bob and goes to find Mikey. It's time to crash.

***

Back in his accommodation, splayed out on his bed with the television muttering at him in broad Australian accents, Gerard takes a final glance at the call sheet before he bunks down.

There, at the bottom of the first page under "Production Notes" it says _Meetings: G. Way (Director) to meet with B. Schechter (Stunt Coordinator) at wrap._

It shouldn't make him feel so unsettled.

***

Pete's shaken awake from a dream about unicorns by the shrill shriek of his cell phone. Muzzily, he thinks he really needs to change his ringtone as he gropes for it in the dark, shoving it to his ear and muttering a hello. The voice on the other end of the line catapults his body into a sitting position, adrenaline rushing down his limbs.

"Pete, it's Tom Meyer. Look I just need you to know something." The head of Universal is calling Pete at what, four am, because he needs him to _know_ something?

"Yes Tom?" Pete's voice is gravelly from sleep and he hopes it's not too evident. The insanity of the thought doesn't even register because, _of course_ it's his responsibility to be awake at all hours so he can field calls from Los Angeles at any time of day.

"Look I'm sending Stump over. You're off the rails. He's going to help you bring this back in line. This is a friendly visit. He's a good guy, he'll help you out."

"Tom-" Pete starts, not even sure what he's going to say.

"Now Pete, I didn't have to give you this one. I could've given it to Skiba, but I thought it was your time. Don't make me regret my decision."

"No, Tom of course not." Pete struggles for words that his sleep addled-brain doesn't supply.

"Glad to hear it, Pete. It's going to be a friendly visit. Real friendly."

Pete stares at nothing, the phone still pressed to his ear long after the line goes dead. He flops back on the bed, his breaths sounding too loud in the room. Well motherfucking fuck. He didn't expect to get this level of studio interference anywhere near so soon.

Wide awake now, he hits the mail button on his phone and there at the top of his inbox is Patrick Stump's movement order. When he opens it, he stares at the flight details for a solid minute before the information processes.

Patrick Stump is already in the sky. He touches down in less than five hours.

***

By the time Pete gets to the studios his ear is warm from back-to-back phone calls. He spent the first hour after Tom's rude wake-up call laying very still while his brain clicked into overdrive. When the hour struck five he started waking people up; his assistant Ryan first, followed by a call to Mikey, then James Dewees the production manager, and finally Bob.

The word spreads fast through the various departments. There's a studio executive coming. It's a surprise attack. Pete knows it was a deliberate ploy that the movement order wasn't sent until after Australia was asleep. They're trying to catch them with their pants down. Well, he'll show them.

When he rolls into the production office the whole crew is already aware. Marie is double checking Mr Stump's accommodation and, more importantly, seeing if his flights are on schedule. Pete waits, twitching in front of her desk, until she gets off the phone with the travel department.

"His flight's on time," she confirms, all business. "By the time he gets through customs the earliest he could be here would be one pm and that's if he comes straight to the studios from the airport."

"He will." Pete's sure of it. He taps Marie's desk in thanks and rushes down to the post production office, Ryan trailing in his wake.

Bob's already booted up and ready when Pete walks in the door of his cutting room. Ryan herds Spencer and Alicia into the room behind them.

"So." Pete begins, dropping down onto the couch and clasping his hands, "We've got a studio exec coming out."

"I heard that part," Bob says, looking a bit under-slept and boy does Pete know the feeling. "So what's the plan?"

"I need you to pull together all your best stuff - cuts, shit-hot footage, whatever you have. I'll get Gerard over here at lunch to check it over, and Alicia-" Pete switches his intense gaze to the post supervisor who is absorbing everything like a sponge, "I need you to book the theatre, arrange an output. We're gonna throw some images in front of this guy, show him all our best stuff, let him see we haven’t been fucking around. That's the plan."

Alicia nods; Bob asks the obvious question, "How long do I have?"

Pete checks his watch, it's just on 7:30am. "He won’t get to the studios any earlier than one; I'll take him on a tour of the sets, introduce him around, get him over to catering for a feed... I can probably keep him busy ‘til about two?"

Bob nods solemnly. Pete knows it's not much time. He also knows Bob won’t say that, he'll just pull something out of his ass and it will smell like roses.

"Thanks Bob. Spencer. Alicia." Pete gets up and Ryan shadows the move, completely in synch with his producer. Pete hovers in the doorway before he leaves, knowing the minute he's out the door there'll be a flurry of activity. "I know it's early for this sort of shit, but if we can get this guy on side now - have him send back good news to the guys in LA, we'll be golden." It's not much of an inspiring speech, but Pete's barely slept and it's all he's got. Alicia gives him a bright smile and Bob just nods, turning to his avid before he's even finished the movement.

Pete hustles back to the production office, already planning his movements for the next few hours. There's not a lot of time before Patrick Stump gets to the studio, and Pete's going to use every minute to make sure they're as ready as they can be.

***

"Really, Gee?" are the first words out of Mikey’s mouth when Gerard opens the door to him that morning.

"What?" Gerard asks, already reaching through the doorway for the coffee Mikey’s balancing precariously on a cardboard tray. Mikey just looks him up and down, eyeing off Gerard’s white button up shirt, black tie and vest ensemble. It’s a far cry from his usual same-t-shirt-for-three-days approach to dressing for set.

Mikey doesn’t even have to open his mouth; there’s a half dozen snide remarks in the curve of his eyebrow.

"Come on, you’re the one who passed on Pete’s SOS; we’ve got an exec on set today," Gerard argues.

"So you thought you’d wear a school uniform? We can put you next to Kodi and it’ll be like The Boy times two."

"Fuck you. It’s not a school uniform," Gerard retorts, his hand already fluttering up to fiddle with his tie. It's probably a stupid idea, dressing up for set. But when he stood in front of his messy suitcase that morning, running the day forwards in his mind, he couldn't help reaching past the worn t-shirts for the crisp white shirt. Professionalism is important. There'll be an executive on set. It has nothing to do with his wrap meeting with Brian Schechter.

His fingers are curling into the knot of his tie, starting to twist it loose when Mikey grabs him by the wrist, tugging him towards the door.

"No, too late we’ve gotta go. You need to stop by makeup before call and I don’t want you missing breakfast again." The usual rush of Mikey's schedule voice is less than soothing. Gerard's feet catch on the carpet, hesitating.

"Mikey-" The word dies in his mouth before he's even finished saying it.

Mikey's gaze finds him. Barely restrained impatience is written all over his face. "What?"

"Nothing." Gerard shakes his head absently, forcing his feet into motion. There's no point talking about things that don't exist outside his own head.

Thankfully, Mikey lets it drop, muttering "Come on, Number Five," with a smirk that helps Gerard start to feel normal again.

***

The morning's shoot is rolling like clockwork, right up until the point where Sophia Miles gets violently ill with food poisoning and they're stuck without a Vanya. She's swept away by PAs to the safety of her trailer when they are only three setups down on a four setup scene. It takes every piece of Gerard's failing willpower to keep his fingernails out of his mouth while Joe runs him through the back-up plan.

They're shooting Vanya's apartment today and there's only one other scene set there. It's going to require a re-light and calling in Bradley Cooper , who plays Kraken. The only other set that is shoot-ready is Hargreeves Office, which would require a total re-light from scratch and even more cast.

The most sensible decision (which is what Joe will always make) is going to cost them at least an hour. Probably two. Gerard just sighs at Joe and nods his assent to the new schedule. He's going to have to trim a shot or two from his shotlist, or they'll go into overtime and they simply cannot do that on the very first day Patrick Stump is on set.

"Will we be rolling again before the executive gets here?" Pete asks the question that's rattling in Gerard's mind.

"Ray?" Joe turns to the DOP, the other solemn face in the circle. "Can you be shoot ready in an hour and a half?"

Ray looks pained, one hand locked in his curly hair like he wants to pull a handful out. It took him three hours to set the lights this morning and he's going to have to put that entire setup back together whenever Vanya's ready to reshoot what they missed this morning.

"Yeah. Yeah I can do it." He nods, eyes already scanning the set, and Gerard can see the wheels turning. "Get any extra bodies out of the sound stage and out of my way, I'm gonna need all my guys moving at light speed - and I'm gonna have to get started right now." He raises an eyebrow in a _are we done?_ kind of way and Joe nods.

"Thanks Ray." Gerard gives him a nod. Ray takes it as the dismissal it is and springs straight into action, calling for Cortez, Worm, Dirty and every other gaffer and electrician in earshot. Gerard will never stop being impressed with Ray's absolute dedication. "Well, if we're down for an hour I'm gonna go see Bob. See how he's going with that "let's impress the studio exec" reel."

"Sizzle reel," Pete interjects. "Don't get in the habit of calling it anything else or you might say it in front of the wrong person."

"Whatever." Gerard waves it away. "Keep me in my creative bubble over here, Wentz. Don't impose on my right brain." Pete just grins back at Gerard in a mock-pained way and Joe rolls his eyes at the two of them. This is an old joke that gets trotted out far too often.

Gerard leaves them to it, heading for the stage door. Mikey's at his side in an instant, already calling ahead to let Bob know they're coming.

When Gerard walks into Bob's cutting room, Bob doesn't even take his eyes of the screen. His fingers skitter over the keyboard, images flashing up on the large monitor to his right as he works. With one final three-key-combo he slams the space bar and leans back, swiveling his chair to finally face Gerard. His expression changes from concentration to appraising in less than a second.

"Why are you dressed like Number Five?"

"Give it up Bryar, Mikey's been giving me shit all morning. You won’t come up with anything he hasn't already used."

"It was an honest question." Bob waves a hand in the vague direction of Gerard's ensemble, "I mean... seriously ?"

"Hello, executive? On set, remember?"

"Dude. You were wearing a Megadeth T-shirt when they sent the exec on _Revenge_."

"That wasn't a stealth attack, Bob. This guy is Tom Meyer's spy, we need to be on the offensive or we'll end up with a whole fucking team of studio drones out here trying to call the shots. Can we just..." Gerard gestures toward the monitor hopefully. Bob meets his gaze solidly, not even shifting an eyebrow. No dice.

Gerard drops into a chair beside Bob's, raking a hand through his hair and rubbing at his eyes. "God, fuck today man. Why today? Sophie's ill, Universal are getting in the way, I've got this fucking wrap meeting."

"With Schechter, right?"

"Yeah with Schechter. Brian. Whatever." Gerard's fingers continue to tap out a rhythm on his temple. He needs to pull his head in. Today is not the day to fall apart. He shouldn't be throwing this shit at Bob; the guy's got enough on his plate already, but he can't help it. The edit suite has always been his safe place. Sometimes just talking things out inside these walls helps him dial down to calm.

"You're not going to be a dick to him are you?" There's a note of warning in Bob's voice.

"What?" Gerard tears his gaze from the inside of his hand to look at Bob.

"You were a total douche with him on _Revenge_. You know he didn't deserve that."

"Hang on, what? How the fuck do you know so much?" Gerard tries not to wince at how squeaky his voice is coming out.

"You probably don't know because you were still shooting, but he spent three days in my cutting room, which I don't even think he put on his timesheet, going through Otter's stuff with me and fixing it up. He saved the gunfight finale man; if he hadn't picked the eyes out of all the stunt footage the way he did we would've needed reshoots."

"I didn't think Otter had fucked it up that bad," Gerard mutters, Bob just shoots him a look - a patented Bryar stare that's equal parts cutting and withering.

Matt "Otter" Pelissier was the stunt coordinator on _Revenge_. The film was in its final weeks of shooting before it became obvious that Otter had bitten off more than he could chew. The studio replaced him at great cost with Schechter in the last days and that expensive decision probably saved the final reel.

So Brian saved _Revenge_. And Gerard was a dick to him. Not just because he was replacing Otter and not just because the studio forced Schechter onto him, no allowances, no arguments. It's more than that, but not enough to talk about. Not even to Bob.

"Alright. I was a dick. I'll behave. I'll be nice. Professional. Can we please watch the fucking reel now?"

Bob frowns like he's not ready to drop it, but his work ethic wins out over his annoyance. He spins to face the monitor and hits play, talking Gerard through the reel as it screens. It's not finished, but the framework is awesome. He's pulled the best moments out of the shot scenes and the last minute or so is a montage of every single money shot they've got in the can, with some incredibly stirring music running underneath.

The last shot is of Kodi Smit-McPhee, The Boy, sucking down coffee and looking every bit the sixty year old man trapped in a ten year old's body. He falls to the floor unconscious and the camera pulls back and up, showing Frank's set and Ray's lighting off wonderfully. It's not the shot Gerard would have picked, but there's no way he's changing it now. It's perfect.

If this doesn't show that executive they know what they're doing, the guy is a complete moron. Which, in Gerard’s experience, is entirely possible.

***

Patrick hates flying. Scratch that. Patrick hates flying _long haul_. Long haul to Patrick means anything over four hours. Eight hours is pushing it. Ten is about all he can take and still be functional. Fourteen is a fucking _joke_.

By the time he gets through customs at Brisbane International he's been awake for more than twenty four hours. This does not make him a pleasant person. Having to catch a midnight flight never makes him a pleasant person, even if he's not trapped in an airplane seat for more than fourteen hours. Which he was, followed by two hours stuck in Sydney International before his connecting flight to Brisbane. And really, the seats in First Class are exactly the same as the ones in Business; they just give you sheets and pajamas and expect you not to notice.

He's travelling alone since Universal didn't see fit to shell out for Travis, his assistant, to come with him, which meant he was missing every single travel comfort he would usually have to arm himself: sleeping tablets, laptop charger, facial wipes, eye drops. He's tired, he's gritty and all he really wants is a shower but he directs the car that's waiting for him to the studios rather than his Main Beach hotel.

The shower will have to wait. It's time for heads to roll.

***

Pete’s on set when Ryan taps his shoulder, leaning in to whisper since there’s a take rolling, "Stump’s due in ten." Pete nods, waiting for Gerard to call cut and the bell to sound, letting all the crew know it’s safe to speak and move around.

"Tell Mikey, tell Joe, tell Alicia, I’m going to production," he instructs, barely catching Ryan’s nod before he’s out the side stage door and hustling to the production office.

It’s definitely longer than ten minutes by the time Patrick Stump, executive for Universal Pictures strides into the production office, wheeling a suitcase behind him and looking a lot like death warmed up.

Pete’s surprised at how young the guy is; he’s used to executives being at least twenty years older than him and this Stump guy actually looks _younger_. Except for his attire, which looks at least three decades too old for him. He’s got one of those grandpa looking flat caps on, casting shadow over a forehead that’s shiny with sweat. He’s also wearing argyle, and not in a subversive way. It’s a very conservative vest that’s sitting over a short sleeve shirt and a pair of shapeless grey pants . To Pete, he almost looks like someone’s little brother playing at executive chic and really failing. Not that Pete would dare comment. This is Tom Meyer’s guy. They have to treat him nice .

"Hey Patrick, I’m Pete Wentz, producer – how was your flight?" Pete dives straight in, walking forward with an outstretched hand. He’s taking his ‘treat him like one of the guys he’ll feel like one’ approach.

The approach falls completely flat. Stump regards him with red rimmed eyes, one hand in his pocket and the other one remaining firmly on the handle of his suitcase, ignoring Pete’s offered shake. "Fourteen hours on plane isn’t my idea of a good time," he states flatly. "Do you have an office?"

The entire production office is so completely silent, Pete’s sure everyone hears his sharp intake of breath.

"Sure, of course." Pete tucks his hand away into his pocket swiftly, shaking off the decidedly chilly reception and indicating his office with a nod of his head. "Coffee, tea, water?" he asks, keeping the pep in his voice through sheer force of will.

"No," the executive grunts, with no hint of courtesy. Pete hands him a bottle of water anyway and Stump takes it, settling in an office chair despite Pete directing him toward his very comfy sofa.

"So how are things in LA?" Pete asks, perching on his desk rather than sitting down. For some reason he feels like he needs the higher plain to even things out. It’s unusual for him to feel so subjugated by anyone, but none of his charming bullshit is working on this guy.

Stump swigs absently from the water bottle he supposedly didn’t want, possibly not even realizing what he’s doing. The guy must be sweating bullets in that getup; almost everyone on crew wised up weeks ago and stopped wearing more than one layer of clothing at a time.

"LA is worried." Stump grinds out the words, tossing the spent bottle towards the trash can. "You’re on shoot day fourteen and you’re already over budget. Way over budget."

"It’s normal for a shoot to go a little over budget in the first few weeks. We’re getting great reactions to the dailies-" Pete can’t even get his next carefully prepared bullet point in, Stump talks right over him.

"Three million dollars is not a _little_ over budget, Wentz. Why do you think I’m here?"

Pete does _not_ sit with his mouth hanging open for ten seconds. Really. It was more like five. He starts to speak but Stump just barrels on in again.

"I’m here to get your shit in line. You know how much three million is? That’s your sound mix, that’s three hundred visual effects shots - two thousand release prints. Is this really the best way to be spending the budget, Wentz?"

It takes about three seconds for Pete’s brain to kick into action, then he finally finds the words that the little upstart needs to hear. "You can’t hang that amount on us, Stump. The bulk of that three million was just the goddamn dollar, currency fluctuations – this is beyond my control. We need to pay the agreed wages on the local crew. Contracts are contracts."

"You’re signing off on overtime like candy. That’s within your control."

"Because we’re on an impossible schedule! This is not a Movie of the Week, it’s unreasonable to expect four minutes a day. The only reason we’re coming close is through sheer concentrated effort and a shit-hot crew. What do you prefer – a few hours of overtime every now and then, or we wrap on time every day and go over schedule by four weeks down the end?"

It’s not until Pete’s got the words out that he realizes how loud his voice has gotten. Patrick hasn't moved, staring Pete down with eyes that are bloodshot and glassy and it occurs to Pete that yelling at the overtired studio exec is probably not the best way to get him on side.

Patrick Stump isn't flinching, though. If Pete didn’t know better he’d say the baby executive was smirking at him.

"This is your schedule. This is your budget. Don’t push and think the studio’s not going to push back." Patrick's voice is level, almost soft, but imbued with incredible authority.

Pete reaches for his calm; he's breathing way too fast and he's got to fight down the urge to run his mouth off even more. By comparison, Stump’s looking more relaxed than he has a right to.

"So. Are you going to take me to set?" Stump asks, already getting out of the office chair like it's discussion over. It’s a complete non sequitur and Pete does _not_ scramble visibly to get himself upright and out the door before the executive. The guy can move fast when he wants to, though.

Pete edges in front, leading the way back into the bullpen. He belatedly switches the charm back on, introducing Stump to the various production crew as they make their way through the office.

As Patrick Stump presses palms with crew, polite as you like despite his tired visage, Pete can’t help feeling like he’s just been tested.

He can’t figure out if he passed or failed.

***

Patrick Stump's presence on set isn't disruptive; he doesn't make any fuss or try to interfere with the shoot. That doesn't mean that Gerard doesn't know he's there. He's like a niggling thought at the back of his mind, hovering in his peripheral vision with Pete by his side. He's a lot younger than Gerard was expecting, but it's too soon to assess him any further than that.

Gerard can't think about it, though. Just like he can't think about having to face Brian Schechter. He just has to get through the last setups and try to pull something from Bradley that will make the scene work.

They barely finish on time. Gerard manages to pull out the moments he needs from the last shot with three rolling resets instead of going for extra takes, and Bob will hate him for it but at least they didn't go into overtime.

When Joe calls wrap, Gerard can't avoid it anymore. He's run out of distractions; Mikey's already bundling him into a golf cart and even Mikey's driving isn't enough to keep his mind in check.

Thankfully, Pete's too busy keeping Patrick Stump entertained so he didn't insist on being present at the meeting. Gerard doesn't need this to be a public spectacle.

Brian is already at the catering tent when they draw up. Of course. Brian is a professional, he would've gotten here ten minutes early. Even from ten tables away, Gerard recognizes him, not just the face, hair, tattoos, but his stance, the casual strength he exudes just by being. He's wearing jeans that look wrecked and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up that hugs in all the right places. There's more ink on his arms now than there was on _Revenge_ , reminding Gerard just how long it's been since he last saw him.

Gerard swallows shallowly, thankful when Mikey drops back, leaving him to cross the floor solo. Each step brings him closer to the stuntman, filling in the details he couldn't see from far away, the short dark hairs of his sideburns, the tiny crinkles at the edges of his eyes. With a sinking heart Gerard has to admit, if only to himself, that Brian is just as attractive today as he was two years ago, maybe more.

"Brian, it's so good to see you again." Gerard sticks his hand out, internally chanting _professional, professional_.

Brian's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but he presses his palm to Gerard's and nods at him, the movement shaking a loose lock of hair onto his forehead and Gerard really needs to focus on the conversation they are going to have, not whether "boyish" or "striking" would be the best word to describe that .

Gerard pulls out one of the fold-out chairs and hunkers down into it, indicating for Brian to do the same. Brian does, after a moment of cool assessment that make Gerard's hair stand on end. When the sound of chair scrapes and squeaks halts, Gerard launches into a carefully prepared speech .

"I don't think I ever said thanks, properly, for all the work you did on _Revenge_. I-"

"You didn't." Brian cuts him off sharply. There's no venom in his voice, it's just flat. Fact.

"I'd like to - now." Gerard leans forward, hands clasped together firmly, trying to keep his facial expression neutral.

"Now that you want me on this one." Brian leans back, folding his arms. One of his feet is tapping staccato on the cement and Gerard has to fight the urge to scowl. He's not making this easy. But Gerard made a promise to Bob; even if Brian has this innate ability to get under his skin, he is going to keep it professional.

"Bob told me about the work you did in the cutting room with him, sorting out Otter's shit. I really appreciate that, Brian. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner." Gerard's eyes fall down to the dirty concrete and he has to drag them back up to forcibly meet Brian's withering gaze. He can feel his palms growing damp as he fumbles for more words, the simmering nervousness he's pushing down threatening to bubble up as anger because fuck if he's going to have to twist someone's arm to work on his film. Not now. Not ever.

Brian's tapping foot starts to rotate in circles instead. "It'd have to be different this time," he says. That, at least, gives Gerard something to work with.

"Of course, yes. You'd be on from the start, you can pick your own crew, you'll get all the rehearsal time you-"

"Not all that." Brian keeps cutting in on Gerard and it's getting to him. It shouldn't, it really shouldn't. People have to cut off Gerard all the time or no one else would ever speak , but when Brian does it, it makes him want to ball his fists and scream. "I'm talking about you and me." Brian unfolds one of his arms to gesture between them and Gerard's heart stops. Just like that.

A million thoughts spool through Gerard's mind like a carousel on speed. Because those words coming out of Brian's mouth is everything and nothing he wants to hear. Before he has a chance to say something stupid or pass out, Brian continues, completely business-like.

"I need to know that you are going to treat me with the same respect you would any other member of your crew, okay? I mean no yelling, no tantrums, no snide remarks. I'm fucking good at my job Gerard; you have no idea how much shit my agent had to hold over me to even get me to come here today . But I'm here now and you know what? It's a good fucking script and you've got a good cast and a great crew. The only question mark in this equation is you."

Gerard can’t find the words for a really long time. He doesn't have the words for that. At least, not words he can speak aloud. Not words he can admit to anyone. He can barely even admit them to himself.

Lies are good, though. Lies he can do.

"I'll treat you the same as any other member of my crew. There is no one on this team that I don't completely respect and that includes you. If you want it, the job is yours." Gerard's not even really sure at what point this conversation became about convincing Brian to work on the film, and not just a meeting he had to get through to satisfy Pete.

Brian is the right person for the job. Pete knows that. Bob knows that. Gerard even knows that. He just wishes that was the reason he wants to hire him. He really does.

Brian rubs his chin thoughtfully, his eyes regarding Gerard with assessment. Gerard's fairly certain this entire conversation was a test, to see if Gerard could hold it together, if he could be civil and not mouth off at Brian the way he couldn't stop doing on set two years ago.

"You'll need to talk money with Pete, obviously, but he wants what I want so you can probably name your rate." Gerard can't help talking to try to fill the silence. He's unreasonably nervous now, and he's not sure if he'll be more relieved if Brian says no or yes.

"Okay. All right, you've got me. If Pete can sort out my agent then you've got me." Brian's not smiling but there's one hiding behind his eyes. He reaches his hand forward and Gerard takes it, feeling a flush of warmth up his arm as they shake on it.

Gerard can't help feeling like this is something so much bigger than it is. So much bigger than it should be.

***

Pete slumps down on his bed trying very hard not to count the number of hours it's been since he was last here. He'll happily count the day’s victories, though.

The look on Patrick Stump's face after they showed him Bob's reel, for one. Sure the guy was tired, his eyes still rimmed in red, but that was a smile Pete saw. A big fucking smile that Patrick wasn't quite fast enough to wipe off his face when Spencer slowly dimmed the theatre lights back up. Pete didn't push it; just offered the guy another coffee and ushered him out of the theatre.

Pete caught Bob's eye before left, giving him and Spencer a nod and a surreptitious thumbs up. They'd done an amazing job.

Number two, he got a call from Mikey not half an hour ago to let him know that Gerard and Brian's meeting went, in Mikey's own word "well". Pete's pretty sure "well" means that he can tell Dewees to give that contract to Brian to sign. It's hard being right all the time.

Lastly, it's not even midnight and he's horizontal, his phone's not ringing and it looks like there might even be something worth watching on the half-assed cable service in his serviced apartment.

He'll count that as another win.

***

Ten minutes down The Spit in a neighboring postcode, Patrick Stump is unknowingly mirroring Pete's slumped out state. Except Patrick's lying on a king size bed, with stupidly expensive sheets, in a hotel room far larger than is necessary for a single person .

There's a giant fruit basket on the counter, five bottles of expensive mineral water standing next to it. Delicate stationery lies on the ornate desk, embossed with the Palazzo Versace logo. Patrick's single suitcase looks small and lonely sitting on luggage rack in the corner. In all his time as an executive he's never felt quite so out of place as he does walking through the expansive lobby of an expensive hotel.

At least if Travis were here he'd have someone to talk to. A familiar face down the hall, instead of just his own thoughts. His contrary brain can't help itself; before he realizes what he's doing he's musing on the cost of this suite, it must be at least six hundred dollars a night. Plus the price of his first class return flight. The car from the air port. His per diem. How much money is the studio spending, to send him out here and tell Pete Wentz to tighten his budget belt?

Patrick rolls onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, trying to quiet his brain. This isn't helping. Breaking down his travel costs into individual visual effects shots or hours of overtime isn't going to help anyone. He's here on Tom Meyer's decree and Tom's the guy who'll be holding the bag at the end of the day.

This is beyond Patrick's control. He knows that. He's the studio's guy and it's his job to be here, no matter how unnecessary he thinks it might be.

Even still, as he closes his eyes searching for that elusive unconsciousness, he can't help feeling like a bit of hypocrite.

***

Day eighteen is a killer. It shouldn't be, it's only a handful of scenes and most of them are dialogue driven - no stunts or highly difficult camera setups - but the wrap scene is pivotal and Gerard wants to get it right. It's Spaceboy and Rumor's scene on the roof; the pivotal scene for the closest thing to a romance the film has. It's also the only real kiss.

Gerard really wanted to shoot this scene on location, he knew the exact building in New York he wanted to use, but there was no way the budget was going to stretch that far. When he found out it was going to have to be a set piece, he took Frank and Andy Hurley the visual effects supervisor, to New York with him to show them what he wanted. They both took endless photos, Frank capturing every detail of the building while Andy snapped away at the skyline and surrounding vista.

Gerard has total faith in his crew, but he was still skeptical that a set would sell as well as a location shoot. But the set piece on Stage Five that Frank's created is an exact replica of that rooftop in New York, from the crumbling rusted out water tower right down to the sculptured detailing on the railings. The illusion is only spoiled by the large green screen rigged behind it where the skyline should be; but that's where Andy and his stable of visual effects vendors will come in, filling in the sky and all those distant lights and towers that would be in the background behind Rumor and Spaceboy.

Andy calls Gerard over between takes, showing him a rough composite of the first wide shot where he's keyed out the green screen and replaced it with one of his location stills. It's rough, but as Gerard eyes the image on Andy's computer, he can see it's going to work. Which means the success of the scene only rests on Gerard being able to get the performances from his cast.

Andy Whitfield and Maggie Gyllenhaal have an interesting chemistry, it's part of the reason he cast them as Spaceboy and Rumor. They can slide from sizzling sexual tension to the familiar annoyance of two people who know too much about each other. Gerard needs equal amounts of both in this scene and getting the balance right has him calling for take after take. Maggie and Andy are blessedly cooperative, but it's still hard work. Trying to find the right words to direct them down to the tiniest subtle nuance of their performances is mind scrambling and by the time they've reached the wrap shot Gerard feels like he's used up all his words.

When the last take is good and Joe calls wrap, the exhaustion Gerard's been fighting all day hits him hard. As he leaves the sound stage with Mikey by his side, he's looking forward to being horizontal, whether it's back at his accommodation or just flopped out on Bob's couch. Even still, when Mikey mentions Brian's working with Cillian Murphy on Stage Nine and he wouldn't mind a visit from Gerard, that's exactly where they go.

Stage Nine is one of the smaller stages. The space is dominated by a huge bluescreen stretched between steel supports. In front of this retina-burning blue backdrop Brian is floating, hanging from two taut wires connected to a harness around his waist. He's got his legs folded under him as casually as a third grader sitting on the floor and it takes a moment before Gerard notices Cillian suspended on wires opposite him, echoing his posture shakily.

"Now remember, you've been doing this all your life so it's gotta be completely natural." Brian's talking as comfortably as if he were sitting on a hard surface.

"I feel like I'm going to rupture something," Cillian complains. "How do you make it look so easy?"

"You've got no core! Come on, it'll hurt tomorrow, but it'll be worth it. Engage those abs."

Cillian seems to pull up a little straighter, leaning one elbow on his knee and resting his chin on his hand. For a brief moment he slips into Séance, floating like in one of Gerard's rough character sketches, before Cillian groans and his legs fall out to dangle beneath him.

"You'll get it," Brian says encouragingly.

"You had it," Gerard chimes in, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. Cillian and Brian both turn their heads, finally noticing he's joined them. "You had the pose perfect for like, three seconds."

Cillian laughs lightly, ending on a groan. "I'll need to get it for longer than that."

"It'll get easier, I promise. Soon it'll be second nature." Brian's nothing but encouraging and Gerard can see that Cillian's responding well to him. "How about we call it a day and I'll run some stuff past our fearless leader?"

"Thank god." Cillian gives an exaggerated sigh, wrapping arms around his middle with a groan. "You're a slave driver Schechter."

"And you're a Prima Donna," Brian retorts, but there's no malice in it the way he's smiling.

On cue, one of Brian's assistants starts lowering Cillian down to a waiting mat, leaving Brian the only one in the air. He looks down at Gerard with his hands on his hips, one leg extended, the other bent at a ninety degree angle with his foot resting on his knee. It's an odd pose, strangely casual and strong at the same time. Gerard squints up at him, already getting a crick in his neck from the angle.

"So what have you got for me?" Gerard asks, keeping his voice friendly but businesslike.

"Bit of everything. Just trying to get styles down," Brian responds, not even sounding out of breath. He leans backwards until he's stretched out horizontal, folding his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle. "Séance feels casual and loose to me. He's a bit of a smart-ass, right?" He tips back further until he's upside-down, legs still crossed, arms still folded and still completely relaxed. "You know what I mean?" He raises an eyebrow, dropping his arm out in a questioning manner and the pose is so perfectly in character for Séance Gerard needs to blink to make sure it’s still Brian up there.

"Yeah, that’s good." Gerard nods up at him, thinking the movement and attitude are all spot on. "I think you’ve got him figured out."

Brian barely has time to shoot him an upside-down grin before Cillian chimes in, "Right. Because I’m going to be able to do _that_ ," with a sideways smile that says he’s only half kidding.

"Give me time, Cill. You’ll get it." Brian speaks with complete confidence and Gerard’s already too impressed with him. Cillian just snorts and let’s his PA lead him away, giving them a half-assed wave as he vanishes out the stage doors. Brian flips himself upright and gives Gerard a conspiratorial smile.

"He’ll be fine. He’s a bit weak around the middle but that’ll change in a week or so. He’s going to hurt so much." Brian’s cackle is knowing and slightly creepy. Gerard just smiles, relieved that his job is firmly planted on the other side of the camera. He figures this secretive sharing is some kind of ploy Brian is using to get him on side, but that doesn’t mean it’s not working.

Brian runs him through a few more moves and poses, focusing on getting stances and attitudes for each of the main gravity-defying characters. Gerard doesn’t need to give him a lot of direction; his instinctual interpretations of movement and style for the main protagonists are pretty close to Gerard’s, which is a great starting point.

Gerard's carefully focusing on the big picture, the way Brian's acrobatics will fit look on the screen, how he wants to shoot them, what angles will work best. He can appreciate the skill involved in what Brian's doing but he purposefully does _not_ concentrate on the flex of Brian's arms, the shift of the muscles in his legs, the grace and power of his body in motion. Well perhaps at an aesthetic level . That's completely all, though.

Just like when Brian's back on the ground, stretching his arms upwards as his crew help extract him from the harness, Gerard's not looking. He's taking the cell phone Mikey's handing to him and listening intently to whatever the fuck Dewees has to tell him about location changes for next week or some shit. Something far more important than the glimpse of Brian's chest he gets when Brian lifts the hem of his t-shirt to towel his face, flashing firm muscle and a smattering of hair and ink.

He gets Dewees to repeat the information to Mikey, just in case.

He's handing the phone back to Mikey when Brian comes over, hair damp with sweat and slightly short of breath.

"Hot work, huh?" Gerard asks and immediately wishes he hadn't.

"Not really," Brian replies, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. "It's the humidity that's the killer."

"You've got that right," Gerard agrees, nervous laugh trilling out of him like a fucking tool. God, it was so much easier being prickly with Brian. Nice is way too hard.

"So, can we talk carnival? I have a bunch of ideas and I just want to get a fix on what you're thinking." There's real excitement in Brian's voice and Gerard would be lying if he said it wasn't just a little bit contagious.

"Sure, fire away." Gerard knows he's smiling too wide, but he hopes that can just be categorized under his artistic enthusiasm. Brian launches into half a dozen pretty well formed strategies for the carnival. There's a couple Gerard's not sure about, but for every single one he can see where Brian is coming from and even if it doesn't line up with what he wants, he can see the merit in it.

They wander the sound stage, Brian firing ideas and questions and Gerard shooting back answers and more questions. It's not as casual as it is with Frank, or as mind-readery freaky as Ray, or as well worn and comfortable as talking it out with Bob, but it's in the vicinity. It's the kind of communication he never had with Otter, and he can see why _Revenge_ suffered from the lack of it.

By the time they've talked themselves out, Gerard's startled to find they've been going for nearly two hours.

"Shit, it's nearly nine. Sorry, you're probably still jetlagged to fuck and I'm keeping you up." Gerard's first instinct is to apologize, which is a nice change from his old instinct to bite Brian's head off.

"Don't worry about it." Brian waves a dismissive hand. "This is gold. Talking this out probably saved me days of going down the wrong track. Thanks for taking the time."

He presses his hand into Gerard's, giving it a firm shake and Gerard is _not_ concentrating on how warm the press of his palm is, the firm squeeze of his fingers. This is professional. This is work.

"No problem. You need any more input let me know, well... let Mikey know, okay?" Gerard's voice sounds too strained, his smile too crooked, but Brian doesn't seem to notice. He just nods, bringing that errant lock of hair down on his forehead making Gerard's stupid brain scream _boyish_ and he bites the inside of his lip to contain a wince.

Mikey rescues him, ushering him out of the sound stage and back towards his trailer.

Too late, Gerard remembers what time it is. "Fuck, Bob. Did you tell Bob he could go?"

"I told Bob he could go. Like, an hour ago," Mikey confirms, the resigned sigh in his monotone only really detectable to Gerard or their mother.

"Thanks." Gerard shoots him a smile. Thank god for Mikey.

"Yeah, whatever. What the fuck, though? You guys couldn't shut up. I didn't think there were that many stunts in this film." Mikey sounds a bit whiney, but then it's a general rule that he doesn't like staying late if there isn't a red-hot emergency.

"There's a few."

"Mhm." Mikey's hum means so much more than Gerard wants it to. For now, he chooses to ignore it.

"Take me home. I need to pass out."

"Roger that." Mikey lets it lie. Because Mikey is awesome.

Later, in the darkness of his bedroom it's possible that Gerard replays some mental footage of Brian's rehearsal session. It's possible he lingers on that glimpse of Brian's chest. But it's on his own time, not work time, so that's nobody's business but his.

***

Patrick Stump's been showing up on set every day at call time like clockwork. Pete can tell he's jet-lagged, but the executive is not giving anything away. Still, Pete can't help feeling like there's a lot more going on than just the studio wanting a presence on set to keep them in line. There's something about the way Patrick seems to pay attention to every detail, like it's all being carefully catalogued even though he barely speaks. Pete can't help being intrigued even if it makes him a little nervous. He's used to being under the studio microscope, but this guy seems way more switched on than the normal caliber of studio hack. Too switched on.

So far Patrick hasn't brought any studio drama with him, but it's early days yet. He's a nosy fucker for sure, requesting constant updates on the day to day budget and schedules which have kept Ryan busy at the photo-copier, because Pete knows better than to hand over editable files to a studio exec. You never know where they'll end up.

He needs to keep Patrick sweet, though. Patrick is Pete's special project and he's going to figure out how to get him on side if it kills him.

He's got to start at the start though, no point trying to leap into the middle. This kid's gonna be a slow burn, he can tell.

"So, do you have plans for dinner?" he asks point blank, catching Patrick's arm on his way to his hire car at wrap on day twenty. Well, there's no point beating around the bush. He catches the flash of bewilderment in Patrick's expression before he slips his executive face back on.

"Ah... no, actually," Patrick admits, which Pete was expecting because let's face it, no one on set is talking to the guy. He's Tom's guy. He's studio. That's scary. So he’s probably facing a night of bad TV and room service, which Pete is more than happy to rescue him from.

"Well now you do. I know this great seafood place. Come on, I'll ride with you." He doesn't give Patrick time to say no, just climbs in the passenger side of his hire car and makes himself at home. He can leave his own car here and get Ryan to drive him in tomorrow; he's got to strike while the iron is hot.

Patrick stands outside the car for a moment, a look of confused thoughtfulness briefly visible on his features before he shrugs almost imperceptibly and pulls the driver door open.

When he fires the engine and _Space Oddity_ comes firing out of the stereo at a moderately loud volume Pete has to clench his arm by his side to prevent a victorious fist pump. Particularly when he notes that it's a CD playing and not the radio. Now this - _this_ he can use. Patrick reaches for the volume control like any polite driver would, but Pete shoos his hand away.

"No don't bother - I love early Bowie. All Bowie really. You know he nearly lost me on _Outside_ , but _Heart's Filthy Lesson_ is so brilliant he won me back over. The guy's a genius, you know?" Pete lets himself gush and he can see that Patrick wants in on this, there's opinion bubbling in those greens, but he's being all executive-like and keeping his trap shut. It's time to pull out the big guns.

"Seriously though, I'm not sure about the acting gig. He should maybe just pick one thing to focus on, stay with the music - that's where the talent lies ."

"You should watch your mouth, Wentz. Stick to what you know." Pete has to bite his lip to keep from grinning at Patrick's level tone. He is _so_ in.

They battle it out for the twenty minutes it takes to get to Main Beach. Patrick is almost evangelical in his support of Bowie's film involvement and Pete has to admit his opinion is swaying, but he will not be moved on how categorically awful _The Hunger_ television series was. Patrick is fair in his assessments; he doesn't talk over Pete, and he actually listens to his opinions before he shoots them down with devastating skill. Pete can respect that.

By the time he's directing Patrick to a parking spot on Tedder Avenue, Pete's managed to wring three smiles from Mr Stump. He's counting. Most of them were in response to the most outrageous thing he could think to say at the time, so it seems absurdist humor might be Patrick's thing.

Tedder Avenue is a short strip of shops, cafes and restaurants that believed the local council's hype about Hollywood on the Gold Coast. It wants to be a little LA and it will never know just how short it falls because it's highly doubtful any of the residents have ever, or will ever, see the real thing. A large percentage of the international crew are bunking here, including Pete.

He directs Patrick into the too-expensive-for-what-it-is-but-still-pretty-good restaurant where a waiter, who is most likely also an actor, seats them and recommends some local wines. Patrick studies the menu with a sense of boredom that can only be achieved from years of solo dining. Pete wonders when the last time he had a home cooked meal was, but he doesn't ask. It's too soon for that.

Pete waits until their food is served before pulling out his best get-them-onside question. "So what's your story? How'd you get into this crazy movie business in the first place?"

"Well that's a long and boring story." Patrick doesn't even look up from his plate.

"Is it? Come on, tell me. I'm interested. Pretend you're the producer and I'm the executive and this is gonna be the next summer hit," Pete prods, keeping it playful but he sees the eyebrow twitch, the little swallow Patrick makes on the word "producer". He files it away carefully. That will be useful.

When the pause in the conversation starts to get uncomfortable Patrick just jumps in. "I started as a runner, worked my way up to PA and then I was in R&D for a few years, script reading."

"You've read mountains of scripts then."

Patrick nods, pressing a pattern into his mash potato with his fork. "So many. I think in _Final Draft_ now. This whole conversation we're having is indented, centered and our names are capitalized. I'll probably put a note in the margin to cut it ."

"Cut it - but why?"

"It's boring and it doesn't advance the plot."

"But it's character development. Character is as important as plot. Come on, finish your story and I'll give you mine." Pete gives Patrick his biggest, goofiest smile, eyebrows dancing like his character backstory is something to get excited about. "How'd you get from script-reading to the upper deck of Universal?"

Patrick pokes his barramundi before finally speaking. "It was when indie was becoming the rage. I plucked out a handful of scripts that didn't suck for the brand new independent arm of Universal - they were cheap to shoot and they made a lot of money. Tom decided I had "the eye"." Patrick shrugs like this isn't a big deal. Like being singled out by the head of Universal and given the keys to the kingdom was just a small step in his life journey.

"Not bad. He'd know after all."

"Would he?" Patrick counters. And fuck there's so much in that. So much in Patrick's look that he's not saying and Pete is desperate to know _all_ of it. But he's being baited. Patrick is waiting for him to leap on this, trying to expose him as the fishing, details-digging spy that he is, so he doesn't touch it.

Instead, he launches into his own character backstory, sparing no details. From his rich kid childhood, through film school, through his starving, living in squalor and not-getting-paid period working on his early indie films right up until _Infinity On High_ , his breakthrough feature that became _The Crow_ for the emo generation. Patrick laughs at that comment.

"I don't know if you're talking yourself up or down."

"A little of both," Pete says honestly, finishing the last of the wine. Patrick's had two glasses and he's looking relaxed and sleepy. And really, kind of cute. He's traded his flat cap for a fedora today and Pete thinks he likes this look better on him. He has to bite his tongue to keep _that_ opinion to himself because hitting on the kid executive at this point will do nothing but unravel his entire night’s very careful work.

As the waiter clears their plates away, Pete leans back and considers the executive sitting opposite. He still hasn’t figured him out. Not really. Everything he’s got out of the guy tonight has just posed more questions than answers. But Pete’s no quitter. He’s going to get to the bottom of this. Before Patrick gets called back to LA and the nest of Universal, Pete's going to make sure he's got him on their side one way or the other.

***

Gerard’s really glad he doesn't have to deal with Patrick Stump. At least not directly, that's why he has Pete. Pete’s been handling it too, stuck by the executive’s side day in and day out and Gerard’s not sure who he feels sorrier for.

Just having a studio guy in residence makes him uncomfortable, but at least Patrick isn't actively interfering with anything... yet. It's only a matter of time before Patrick starts channeling Tom Meyer and Gerard's not looking forward having to defend his creative decisions on his own goddamn film. He's got enough stuff to deal with already.

Like Bradley fucking Cooper. Gerard is fairly certain the actor isn't intentionally going out of his way to drive him crazy. He probably thinks that asking a lot of questions shows his commitment and interest in the role, which is great, except for how it's also slowing their pace down to a crawl. After a lot of barely-related questions about Kraken's backstory chew up at least half an hour of good shooting time, they wind up wrapping Bradley's last scene late. Gerard's still fighting to catch up even after they move onto the next scene with Kodi. Gerard is still two setups behind when Joe calls lunch, but he's pretty sure he can make up the time. He rarely needs more than three takes from Kodi, the kid is something of a savant.

Gerard fills his plate and slides in beside Mikey at one of the long trestle tables under the large marquee where they eat every day. It's a surprise when Bob and Spencer show up and join him at the table.

"Hey what's the big event? You never eat on set," he protests. Bob and Spencer are more 'fill your plate and take it back to the cutting room' kind of guys.

"New world order," Bob says, stabbing his fork into an unwary vegetable. "Spencer's making me."

"I'm sick of not knowing anyone at the wrap party. Post crew's gonna be more social on this one," Spencer decrees, with more than a hint of haughtiness. "It’s weird knowing everyone’s faces from dailies and them not knowing ours. I feel like a creeper." He pokes Bob with a bony elbow. "Come on, Bob. You love it."

"I didn’t choose a career sitting in a dark room behind a monitor to suddenly become Miss Betsy Social," Bob mutters and it sounds like an old argument. Either way, it’s an argument Spencer’s already won because Bob is here, not in his dark room.

"Miss Betsy who?" Pete’s asks, settling beside Mikey with his plate and surprise, surprise he’s got the damn executive right behind him. Now Gerard has to watch his mouth in what’s supposed to be his downtime. Patrick takes the seat beside Pete while Ryan slides in beside Bob further down the table.

"Bob, you know Ryan right?" Spencer making introductions between two people Gerard sees daily draws focus to just how out of the loop the post guys really are. It’s kind of sad.

"We've been in the same room at the same time a lot, but no, not properly." Bob gives Ryan The Nod. "Nice to meet you properly." Ryan gives Bob a wide smile and the way Spencer is glancing between the two of them with his lip twitching makes Gerard wonder if something is up. But no, this is Bob. Bob and Gerard are teammates in their staying-off-the-whiteboard status. It's nice to be in company on that.

"I was beginning to wonder if you actually existed or if Spencer just made you up." Ryan's still smiling at Bob and Gerard's thinking he's never really noticed quite how _pretty_ the kid is. Yeah, pretty is the right word for it.

"Oh he exists. Bob just tends to fly under the radar. Invisible hands putting the pieces together." Gerard fills his voice with mystery, accompanying the comment with completely appropriate Spirit Fingers.

"The invisible hands are sitting right here," Bob grates outs, looking slightly pink and reminding Gerard that there's a reason Bob likes his quiet dark room.

"Yeah, don't pick on Bob. He's not Schechter," Mikey chimes in and oh _fuck you_ little brother.

"Oh, you did not just go there." Gerard turns a look of fire on Mikey.

"Oh come on, you can't stop it there Geeway. I have heard _so many_ stories about this," Pete jumps in, practically foaming at the mouth.

At which point Bob decides to open his trap. "I have footage."

"Bob!" Gerard shrieks, because this is far more of a betrayal than is warranted for some tiny crack about invisible hands. He has to defend himself. "I was under so much pressure that day. And you know, I don't think Patrick needs to hear all our old bullshit stories. Sorry, Patrick."

"Oh, I wouldn't stand in the way of a good story. Do tell." Patrick is grinning. The fucking executive is _grinning_. To which Pete responds by bumping shoulders with the guy and muttering, "character development," sparking a secret exchange of smiles which is really just too much at this point.

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Gerard's intense frustration is evident in every syllable.

"Yeah it was a lot like that." Bob pitches his voice up, crying, "Oh Jesus Christ just rig the fucking car already."

Mikey chimes in and they chant the last part together, "Why are there so many _questions_?!" Of course instead of looking abashed by all this, stupid Mikey just points at stupid Bob and they laugh like a couple of stupid fucking idiots. Because Mikey has no family loyalty whatsoever and should have been drowned at birth.

"Great, you guys, just great. Please can we relive the lowest point of my professional career again?" Gerard doesn't add _in front of the fucking executive_ , but he does dance his eyes in Patrick's direction in a meaningful way.

Bob just smirks. "Like I said, I have footage. I wouldn't have had to show it to everyone individually if you'd just let me put it in the _Revenge_ goof reel like I wanted to."

"Bob, I can't believe you've withheld this from me. As your producer I demand to see this footage." Pete is grinning so hard Gerard's surprised he can speak past his giant, stupid teeth.

"Can I come too?" Ryan asks Bob with a tentative smile and there is something not quite normal about the way Bob grins back at him.

"Of course. All are welcome. The cutting room has an open door policy for exposing key crew to Gerard's embarrassing past."

Gerard has no recourse but to sink his head into his hands and hope for it all to be over. Soon. Thankfully, Ryan appears to have a tiny shred of decency because he instigates a change of subject.

"Great. Hey, have you guys been to Stage Eight to see the Icarus yet? Looks amazing." Ryan directs the question at Bob and Spencer and Gerard already knows the answer.

"I see the sets every day, all day." It's Bob's standard answer.

"On your monitor," Spencer argues, rolling his eyes. "It's not the same."

"Right. You should see it for real. Frank's done an awesome job." Ryan makes a good point but he's not going to have a lot of luck on this one, Gerard knows. He's managed to get Bob to go to set maybe five times in the last three films, and every single time Bob's looked so incredibly uncomfortable and out of place he's felt like the world's worst friend. It's amazing how someone who looks so collected and settled sitting at his Avid can look so completely lost when you put him on a set.

So it's a real surprise when he hears Bob's response. "I guess. Maybe I'll stop by."

When Gerard looks up from his hands Bob is smiling at Ryan. It's not a friendly crew member to fellow crew member kind of smile. Fuck, Gerard didn't even know Bob _had_ a flirty smile, but there it is. Ryan's beaming an answering grin right back at Bob and Spencer's looking way, way too satisfied with himself .

Something unprecedented is definitely going down. He makes a mental note to get Mikey to check the whiteboard in a week or so.

***

Gerard tries to shake the clinging embarrassment from his crew's little nostalgic sharing session at lunch, but it's hard. Once he's dumped his plate he still has fifteen minutes before he has to be on set, so he waves Mikey and his death-trap golf cart away in favor of walking across the lot to the sound stage solo. He could use a little brain space.

The sun beats down on him as his feet pound the pavement, trying to shake off unwanted memories. Like the expression on Brian's face two years ago on the set of _Revenge_ , the day he lost it. It was a mix of shock and anger, his throat working in a way that told Gerard it was taking a lot of control for Brian to keep his mouth shut. It was all there in the flush of his cheeks, the way he bit his lip when he turned away; dropping whatever questions he'd had and heading back to the rig, his movements stiff with rage.

Gerard can still remember Joe's apprehensive glance and Mikey's carefully blank expression. Not to mention Bert's knowing smirk and Gerard's own bubbling frustration, bursting out like water from a busted pipe, spraying in all the wrong directions.

Gerard doesn't want to be that person again. Having Brian around to remind him and his crew of exactly how out of control he was two years ago is getting to him more than he hoped it would. He's not going to fall into that trap this time, though. He's not going to let his personal shit fuck with his head. This should be easy, because he's not going to _have_ any personal shit. Not on this one. It's too important.

He finds himself hovering in the doorway of Stage Nine, where he can see the stuntman in question pacing through fight choreography with Bradley and Andy. Brian's got Bradley in a neck hold, his hands loose and he's gesturing widely at Andy, demonstrating and explaining. He finishes with a comment that has all three of them laughing, before they break apart and Bradley and Andy take up positions on either end of the mat.

Brian glances over and catches a glimpse of Gerard where he's loitering in the doorway, waving him over with a smile that does a lot to extinguish Gerard's paranoia. If Brian can be this easy with him now, then maybe it's not all as huge as it feels in his mind. He glances at his watch, he still has ten minutes up his sleeve, so he trots over, shooting Brian a smile that's genuine. Brian's returning grin is wide, crinkling his eyes at the corners and showing his teeth. The effect is quite devastating.

"Check this out." Brian nods his head at the two actors, clapping his hands and telling them, "Let's run it for Gerard."

A look of apprehension crosses Andy's face, but he smoothes it out of his features consummately, giving Brian a nod.

Bradley isn't so subtle. "I don’t think we're ready yet, Brian." He starts to launch into what Gerard recognizes as one of his talky spiels that's cost the production a lot of minutes, but Brian cuts him off.

"It's no big deal, we're just rehearsing. Right, Gerard?" Brian arches an eyebrow at Gerard, his smile is casual, but there is something conspiratorial in his eyes.

Gerard follows his lead. "Right, no big deal. I'm just passing through."

"Great. Let's run it from the top." Brian concludes, and just like that Bradley shuts up and does what he's told. Fuck, amazing. Gerard's going to have to remember this approach next time Bradley's feeling chatty on set.

They run the fight sequence, Andy and Bradley shoving, flipping, throwing and bouncing off each other. It's early days, some of their movements are still loose and occasionally their timing is off, but it's going in the right direction. There's the right combination of trained martial arts moves and dirty fighting that suits Kraken and Spaceboy. Andy and Bradley finish in the hold Brian was demonstrating when Gerard arrived, Andy holding Bradley by the neck, both actors panting with exertion.

"This is where we're up to." Brian explains. "Pretty good, right?"

"Pretty great." Gerard corrects him with a smile. "Nice work, guys." Gerard's rewarded with a nod from Andy and an actual smile from Bradley.

"Is this all going to work with Spaceboy's..." Gerard starts to direct the question at Brian, fumbling when he can't find the words to describe Spaceboy being part monkey and mostly computer generated.

"You mean the fact that Spaceboy is three times the size of Kraken and mostly CG?" Brian poses the question perfectly.

"Yeah, exactly."

"Don't worry," Brian lips curl up in a half grin and Gerard nearly loses his train of thought at the sight, fuck he's got to concentrate. Brian continues easily, "I've run everything past Hurley, as long as I don't get legs and arms in at the same time he can sort out the CG side." Brian shoots Gerard a smirk, "You _will_ write a character who is three times the size of everyone else, though. You trying to make my life difficult?"

Gerard laughs, short and sharp. "That's what Ray keeps saying. Fucks with his framing having to keep leaving space for, you know," He waves a hand at Andy, "The rest of him."

Brian's laugh is throaty and it twists up Gerard's insides. Gerard shoots a desperate glance at his watch, his ten minutes are nearly up. "I'd better get to set. Thanks for the sneak peek."

"Anytime." Brian gives him another smile, keeping pace with Gerard as he make their way to the stage door.

"So, you're on the Academy front lawn set tomorrow, right? Cillian's on wires." Gerard asks, recalling the advance schedule from today's call sheet.

"Yeah, he's ready." Brian answers the question before Gerard even asks. "He's not gonna join the Circe De Soleil, but he's ready."

"Great." Gerard hovers on the threshold of Stage Nine, feeling oddly like Brian's walked him home and he's standing on his front porch waiting for a kiss. He pushes down the mad thought and sticks out his hand with a muttered, "thanks". Brian's fingers are warm and dry when they envelope Gerard's and his grip is firm. It's a struggle for Gerard to keep the smile on his face and not snatch his hand away like he's been burned. He pulls it off, shaking Brian's hand and trying to ignore the way his heart's skipping over itself.

He thinks he does a pretty good job of keeping it professional, but the moment he steps out of Stage Nine he can feel his face flooding with warmth. He hopes his color will settle by the time he's reached set. If it hasn't, he'll just blame the heat.

***

The cost of Patrick's hotel stay is starting to nudge the equivalent of four or five basic visual effects shots by the time he hears from Tom Meyer directly. It's a late hour for a call, but phone etiquette doesn't seem to apply when time zones are involved. He's in his hotel room, feeling full and half-sleepy after another meal out with Pete, which seems to be becoming habitual.

He snatches up the phone; on sighting the international number on the call display he figures this will be his call back to base. He's nearly out of clothes and more than ready to be home on familiar ground, plus the studio must need him back yesterday. Not to mention, the black hole of culture that is the Gold Coast feels like it's sucking the life out of him.

"Patrick, its Tom Meyer." Tom's usual abrupt greeting is no surprise.

"How are you Tom?" Patrick keeps his voice light, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he starts pulling shirts off the hangers and folding them into his suitcase.

"Excellent. You know the check for overtime has gone way down since we sent you out, Stump. I'm impressed. Good work."

"I don't know that it was all me, Tom." Patrick tries to put a smile in his voice.

"Don't be modest Stump, you're doing well. How are you liking Australia? You should settle in, I want you there for the long haul."

"Excuse me?" All the lightness drops from Patrick's tone as his ticket home extinguishes right in front of him.

"I need you to stay on, Stump. You're doing a great job keeping these assholes in line. We might even come in on budget. I want you on this one for the rest of principal photography." The words bring a rush of warmth to Patrick’s face. This is not what he signed on for.

"Tom, I can monitor this from LA, I don’t need to be on the ground." Patrick knows the argument won’t fly but he has to try.

"You know you do, Patrick. You know you do. Keep up the good work. Try and get some Aussie ass while you’re there." Tom hangs up before Patrick can mount any kind of argument. He stares at the phone in his hand for a long moment before cursing loud and harsh.

They are only four weeks into a sixteen week shoot. That means he's stuck here for another three months.

Patrick’s mind is a rush of details. His apartment, his mail, his cleaning lady, the three internet dates he had lined up this month, his bills, his bank account. He needs clothes, toiletries, an apartment with a kitchen and a fucking drugstore. There’s only one answer for it.

He calls Travis.

***

"So it looks like you're stuck with me." Patrick's words take a moment to register with Pete. As he stares at the executive perched on the squeaky chair in his office in his tweed slacks and polo shirt, Pete's mind rushes to play catch up with his ears.

Patrick is staying. He's _staying_?

"I want out of the Versace and into something more livable. I want an actual office, with a desk. Most importantly though Pete, I expect to be added to your email chain on all things involving budget and schedule." Patrick recites his laundry list with as much enthusiasm as he uses ordering a meal, which isn't a lot.

"Sorry," Pete waves a hand, "Can we go back to the part where you're staying? Define _staying_."

"Until the end of principal photography." Patrick's tone is level but there's something in his eyes that is nearly an apology.

Pete grips the edge of the desk until he feels like his knuckle bones will burst through his skin. This is not happening. This is _not_ happening. They can't saddle him with a fucking babysitter for the whole shoot. This is inhumane. This is...

"Class A studio interference," Patrick supplies for him. "I know what you're thinking. It's not my call, Pete."

For once in his life, Pete has no words. No words he can say in front of Meyer's fucking guy anyway. There's lots of words roiling in his head, most of them four-lettered. This is complete bullshit.

"This is complete bullshit." So much for his filter. "No offence, Patrick."

"None taken."

"Right, you do see where I'm coming from though?"

"Our temporary situation has become somewhat permanent." Patrick holds his hands wide, one eyebrow arched. Everything in his manner says he's not happy with this outcome either. "Argue it out with Meyer if you like, I hope you win."

"It's not a thrilling prospect for you either, is it?" Pete offers.

Patrick just shakes his head. "No offence."

"None taken." Pete's smile is thin.

"I packed for two weeks. I'm out of clothes and I don't have my assistant." Patrick scrubs a hand over his eyes, looking suddenly tired and ten years older. Patrick gets the tiniest glimpse of just how unwelcome this news was for the executive. However shitty it is having a babysitter, it's probably shittier for the one doing the sitting.

"Oh, we'll get you your assistant. Don't worry about that." Pete's already doing the mental math, because if Patrick's ready to ditch the Versace for something real, that money can be re-purposed for another body's housing and per diem.

"Also, I think I hate the Gold Coast."

"Join the club. We're getting t-shirts made." Pete grins and Patrick actually manages a weak smile in return.

Pete's still pissed. Annoyingly, unreasonably pissed at the fucking studio and their fucking bullshit but maybe, if he looks hard enough, he might be able to find a silver lining here.

***

"Tell me again why I’m doing this?" Gerard’s pulling on sneakers – shit how does he even _own_ sneakers – and ignoring the hat Mikey’s shoving at him.

"You want Pete’s reasons or your reasons? Because I can’t really recreate Pete’s big ass speech about morale and team-building with any real conviction." Mikey probably couldn’t either, Gerard agrees.

"Fine. My reasons then." Gerard clambers up from the ground, brushing down his cargo shorts. Damn, but these sneakers are really fucking comfortable .

"Because Pete’s making you." Mikey hands him back his coffee and Gerard immediately slurps up a mouthful. "Oh, and Frank might see a spider."

Gerard grins around his takeaway coffee cup. Frank’s been talking at length about how Australian spiders are extra scary because they can kill you. He lets Mikey shove him towards the door, continuing his reasoning to Gerard. "And Brian might take his shirt off at some point."

Gerard nearly trips over, his face flooding with warmth. "I hate you," he declares with feeling, shooting an incinerating glare at his traitor of a brother, but of course it has no effect on Mikey whatsoever, he’s too busy being smug.

The sunlight outside is blinding as they make their way to the car. Gerard really can’t fathom how Pete talked him into this. He has a pile of storyboards to pore over, dailies to re-watch, plus hours/days/weeks of sleep to catch up on and yet instead of any of these fine pursuits, he’s going to spend his first free Saturday trudging through leaves up some fucking mountain. Possibly getting heat stroke. Definitely being eaten by bugs.

He climbs into the car and sighs deeply. Mikey just raises an eyebrow at him, completely unsympathetic, shoving a tube of sunscreen and a bottle of insect repellent at him. Gerard makes a disgusted noise. "Which one first?"

"Like I have any idea," Mikey mutters and turns the key in the ignition.

***

Pete looks only slightly more ridiculous than Gerard. He's wearing a white cloth hat with a wide brim and there's white zinc painted across his nose. His shorts can't figure out if they are knee-length or capris, and he's wearing a t-shirt with a koala on it. He's even managed to drag the poor executive along for the day of torture in the sun, though it seems Patrick was smart enough to avoid the slather of zinc cream. He's looking vaguely normal in a trucker's cap, t-shirt and cargo shorts much like Gerard's.

"No hat Gerard? You know the sun's a killer here." Pete does his best motherly look and Gerard has to clench his hand into a fist to keep from giving his producer the finger.

"I tried," Mikey supplies. "Rejected." He raises his hands in a 'not my problem' way and Pete shakes his head sadly.

"Oh like your hat is giving you so much protection," he grumbles at Mikey. Mikey's donned some jaunty little train-driver's number with the tiniest brim on it. It sits well with the rest of his scenester-goes-trekking ensemble of tight t-shirt, tight jeans and Chucks.

"Not setting a good example for the crew, Way," Pete tuts and Gerard manages to refrain from slapping him, but it takes a _lot_ of self control.

Luckily, Pete is saved from dying by the very artistic hands of his director as the rest of their little trekking group arrive. Frank's dragging Jamia by the arm, already completely sweated up. Ray's coming up behind looking calm as ever, followed by a handful of gaffers and electrics. Somewhere muddled in the back of the group Gerard catches a glimpse of Brian, getting the barest impression of t-shirt, shorts and bared skin before he focuses back on his immediate group.

When the numbers are right, Pete gives them the go ahead to get going.

It's a hot, humid stinker of a day and Gerard is already sweating like a motherfucker before they've gotten ten steps. The group slowly spreads as the fast, slow and in-between trekkers separate and Gerard wishes he had his iPod. He really can't stand the sound of his own breath in his ears. That's not how this is supposed to work though, he should be _bonding_.

Rolling his eyes at his own thorough indoctrination, he speeds his steps to catch up with Frank's huddle. Frank's greeting immediately makes him wish he hadn't bothered.

"Look how white your fucking calves are, dude! They're _glowing_!" Frank exclaims, pointing at Gerard's rarely-exposed lower legs.

Gerard counters by pointing at a nearby tree and shrieking. "Oh look, is that a funnel web? They can kill you in two hours, you know."

"Fuck you." Frank flips him the bird, but he still glances towards the tree. And casts a wide berth around it.

Tormenting Frank with descriptions of local deadly spiders and exactly how long their venom takes to kill doesn't keep Gerard distracted nearly long enough. He's bored, sweaty and well over it by the time they reach the checkpoint. Pete and Patrick must have been air-lifted there, they are so well settled in, camped out on deck chairs and drinking cordial from plastic cups . Bob's stretched out on a distant picnic blanket with Spencer, Alicia and - Gerard has to look twice to confirm it - yes that's Ryan sitting with them. At this rate the kid will become an honorary member of the post crew.

Gerard finds an empty deck chair and collapses into it. Mikey drops a bottle of water into his hand before going to join the post crowd. Gerard gives them a half hearted wave, wondering if he's done enough yet, if he can leave now.

He doesn't even look up when a body drops into the empty chair beside him.

"So are _you_ doing the second leg, or are you gonna pussy out, too?" Gerard glances up at the voice and gets an eyeful of hot, sweaty Schechter.

"I'm sorry?" he asks, trying not to stare. Brian's white t-shirt is damp and sticking so tight to the surface of his body it almost looks translucent. He's got a black baseball cap pulled low over his brow, casting shadow over his face that makes his eyes spark that much more. All this torturous exercise and exposure has got Brian looking all sun-kissed and sexy while Gerard's feeling flushed and panting and entirely unattractive.

"The second leg. First five ks is just a warm up, there's still a whole mountain to climb. You in?" Brian looks way too enthusiastic about this.

"No thanks." Gerard waves his water bottle dismissively. "I know when I'm beat."

"Oh come on, don't pussy out. The view up there is amazing. When are you gonna have the opportunity to do this again?" Brian's teeth look far too white against his skin when he smiles.

"Yeah, no. But thanks." Gerard's smile feels more like a wince. Is it possible that he could feel any less attractive right now? Fuck, he wants a cigarette.

"Seriously, Gerard, it's worth it. Just give it a try. I'll keep you company and if it gets too much you can always head back - how's that strike you?" Brian is just not giving up and Gerard knows this is a bad idea. He doesn't have much more left and he really doesn't feel like passing out from heat stroke in front of a hot guy.

"Come on. For me. I'll owe you." Brian's wide grin makes him look about five years younger and way too attractive. Gerard has got nothing. He is powerless against it.

"Sure, okay. What's to lose, eh?" It's like it's not his voice coming out of his mouth. Gerard utters the words without any real thought.

The thought comes afterwards, when Brian's smiling at him proudly, bumping his elbow and saying, "Good stuff," in congratulations. The thought that he's got plenty to lose, particularly his dignity.

Gerard barely has his breath back before Brian holds him to his word, dragging him off to the second part of the trail with barely a wave at large portion of the crew who are choosing to sit out the rest. Gerard gets the barest glimpse of Mikey's expression of amused shock when he sees where Gerard is headed.

If he thought the first five ks were hard, the next make him completely reassess his definition of difficult. It's mostly uphill with long stretches of uneven stairs where he can't even see the top, just stairs right up to the horizon. It's hard work and Gerard knows he's going slower than whatever pace Brian would be going at alone, but Brian doesn't give up, which means by default that Gerard doesn't. Every time Gerard flags, Brian shoves a water bottle at him and feeds him encouragement.

Gerard is starting to get a crazed idea that he could actually do this. That notion vanishes when they get to the Stairway of Torture. Yes, it is actually called that. It's practically vertical. There are _chains_ to haul himself up with. Chains.

"So this is where I politely withdraw," Gerard pants out. He's feeling pretty good to have made it this far, but he knows his limits. His body is not designed for pulling itself up fucking _chains_.

"You can't pussy out now, we're nearly there."

"You said that like fifty zillion stairs ago."

"Oh that time I was lying, that was just to keep you going. This time it's the absolute truth." He points at the torture climb. "Last part, fifteen minutes I swear."

"Fifteen minutes of hell."

"Think of it as the boss level on like, Super Mario. Last part's gotta be the hardest or you won't level up. You wanna level up don't you, Way ?"

It's completely unfair. Brian is not allowed to use Gerard's video game obsessions against him. Plus he's still got the hot, sexy guy thing happening too. Gerard's legs are screaming, his calves feel like they're tied in fucking _knots_ and yet somehow, by some magical Schechter power, he's nodding his assent.

"Fine, let's get this over with."

It does _not_ take fifteen minutes. If Gerard was wearing his watch he'd know for sure just how much of a lie that was, but he feels like he's fighting his way up that last incline for nigh on three days. Brian doesn't let him quit though, and by the time he has the landing in sight he's surprised to find he doesn't actually _want_ to quit; he really wants to finish this, they are so close.

He fights his failing body and hauls himself up the steep stairway, the chain links clinking thickly beneath his hands. Brian keeps yelling encouraging things over his shoulder like "I can see the top, we're nearly there," which are only slightly less motivating than the rear view he's got of Brian climbing. Brian's shirt is entirely see-through now and his pants tighten over the curves of his ass every time he puts a leg forward and pulls himself up. Gerard can't help feeling like he's the donkey and Brian's the dangling carrot, which are not thoughts a sane person has, but then a sane person wouldn't be trying to shift their own body weight vertically in search of a pretty view.

When his feet hit the lookout deck Gerard can’t believe it’s actually over. He has to lean hard against the railing and wheeze for a while before he can even think of lifting his head. When he does, it’s almost magical. The tapestry of landscape stretches out as far as his eyes can focus, green and brown with a misty haze hanging in front of the distant mountains. It’s so pretty it would probably speed his heartbeat if he wasn’t already dying from exertion.

He turns his eyes from the spectacular view to Brian who’s leaning on the railing looking thoroughly satisfied and grinning fit to burst. It’s a contagious kind of excitement and when Brian pulls out his phone and switches it to camera mode Gerard pushes all thought about how red-faced and ridiculous he looks to the back of his mind and lets Brian manhandle him into frame. He grins vaguely into the lens, super-aware of the weight of Brian’s arm around his shoulder as Brian takes one more version of the photo that’s probably been taken infinite times at this summit.

At least he has proof he pulled it off. He’s pretty sure no one would believe him otherwise.

"I think you just lost a few people some money, Gerard," Brian mutters, admiring the photo on the digital display.

"Hmm?" Gerard tries to focus on anything other than the way Brian is smiling. The thought finally clicks in his mind, "Oh god, people weren’t betting on this, were they?"

"I think this picture’s gonna lose Frank twenty bucks," Brian states with a grin, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Gerard just laughs. "Serves him right."

Getting back down the mountain is harder than Gerard counted on. On the way up he was so busy thinking about getting to the top he didn’t stop to think that he’d need to salvage some energy to get back down again. They take it slow and Brian regales Gerard with odd stories about stunts gone wrong and other gems from his adrenaline junkie career. Gerard’s pretty sure his body will hate him tomorrow, but the time with Brian without his stuntman face on is almost worth it.

By the time they get back to the checkpoint most of the other crew have long deserted. Gerard can't recognize most of the stragglers who remain, but he knows Mikey will be around somewhere, so he's not worried.

He stakes out a picnic blanket, flopping out on his back and feeling every muscle in his body _relax_ simultaneously when he hits full recline. He can't contain his satisfied groan as he palms his eyes and sighs. Brian flops down beside him, chuckling softly.

"Gerard, you are such a weakling." He presses a bottle of water into Gerard's hand and Gerard sucks down a mouthful.

"Oh shut up. We can't all be fucking athletes."

"Hardly. You're just soft." Brian grins at him and that is _it_ , Gerard's had enough of this shit, he flicks his water bottle at Brian, getting him right in the face with half a bottle's worth of liquid. Brian is still for a moment, shocked, before he twists the cap off his own bottle and fires a blast at Gerard with a flick of his wrist.

It's so fucking on then. Gerard's mouth drops wide in an expression of shock, but he quickly grabs Brian by the shirt and upends the rest of his water right over his smirking face. Brian's gasp is half astonishment, half euphoria as he grabs a handful of Gerard's t-shirt and forces him down on his back, pouring a flood of ice-cold water over his face and neck.

Gerard sputters under the cascade, trying hard not to laugh. The water is a cold shock but it cools him as it soaks in, feeling really good under the hot Queensland sun. They tussle on the damp picnic blanket, Gerard doing his best to force Brian into submission but he's just too strong. The hard crush of Brian's body presses down over him, forcing air out of his lungs and Gerard squirms, every point of contact on his body zinging with sensation.

He freezes, with two handfuls of Brian's shirt, their bodies crashed together where Brian's got him in a strong pin. He can't move and he suddenly doesn't want to. Brian stares down at him, panting hard but looking deep, like he can see right through Gerard's walls, right through to the idiotic attraction he's been fighting since the first day he saw Brian on the set of _Revenge_ , tight shirt and relaxed cargoes, sideburns and smoky eyes. Gerard's wanted him that long. But this is not smart. This is not a good idea.

He wriggles out from under Brian, sliding from his grasp and breaking the barely-achieved moment. He doesn't give himself time to process what looks like the briefest flash of disappointment on Brian's face.

"I need to find a restroom," he lies, crawling to his feet, swearing at himself inwardly.

He stumbles blindly outside the picnic area, not really paying attention, just trying to get away from Brian as fast as he can. He doesn't absorb _anything_ until he nearly trips over Bob.

Bob, who has a lapful of Ryan and they are enthusiastically necking.

Well, fuck. So much for his teammate, his brother in their whiteboard hookup absence. Ryan is all over Bob, hands clasped in his hair, legs wound around Bob's waist. Bob's not passive in this, no way, Gerard does not want to note how Bob's hand has disappeared down the back of Ryan's pants, with the other locked in the pretty young man's hair. Well, shit. Fucking bullshit.

Gerard doesn't say a word. He slips away as quietly as he can, taking the most roundabout, back-ass trail to the parking lot where he slumps down on the curb and waits for Mikey by his car. Mikey takes forever to get back, by which time Gerard feels baked and miserable and confused.

Luckily, Mikey doesn't ask any of the questions Gerard can see hiding in the twitch of his mouth. He just waves goodbye to Alicia, climbs into the car and turns the air-con on full.

Gerard has plenty of time to think about what an idiot he's been the whole way back to Main Beach.

***

Gerard is not having a good day. Pete picked it up the moment the director walked on set, hair sticking out in disarray - which is not abnormal at all - it's the level of disarray that is telling for Pete. Then there is the sighing, the muttering, the complete inability to stand still. Again, all typical Gerard behavior, but it's more restless than usual, lacking focus.

These little notices to Gerard's mindset aren't obvious to every person on set. Mikey knows, of course. From the little sideways glances Pete's getting from Joe, the first AD has figured it out as well. The cast are clueless, except maybe for Kodi, who is way too switched on for a thirteen year old in Pete's opinion.

"Something's up," Patrick says to Pete, voice low even though there isn't anyone nearby paying any heed.

Pete should be surprised. Patrick hasn't been here long enough to tell a flustered Gerard from a normal everyday weird Gerard, but the fucker just did. He glances sideways at the executive, a little shocked that his first instinct isn't to dismiss it and end the conversation. This is too sensitive for Tom Meyer's guy and even if it wasn't, Pete's not going to be the one betraying Gerard to the studio.

He kind of wants to, though. Not the betraying part, just the talking part. Because he can't help thinking that between the two of them they might be able to figure it out.

Instead, he just hums noncommittally and fixes his eyes on the monitors. Patrick lets it drop.

Between setups Joe snags Pete for a quick word.

"We're falling behind. We're not going to get to scene eighty-four at this rate," Joe warns, referring to the last scene on the call sheet. It's nothing Pete wasn't expecting, but that doesn't mean he isn't hoping for a different answer.

"Even if we go into overtime?" Pete asks, wincing when he pushes the "O" word out. They've been keeping tight on the overtime since Patrick's arrival, and he knows he'll be in shit if he goes there; but if it has to be done, he'll do it.

"It's not worth it." Patrick's suddenly part of the conversation and Pete has to bite back a remark. This is not his business (except for how it is) but still, it isn't his place to just jump into conversations he's not invited to.

"I'm sorry?" Joe asks, glancing between Pete and Patrick.

Patrick just shakes his head, looking far too sure of himself. "Even if you go into overtime you won’t get it all. You'd be better off dropping scene seventeen and picking it up on Friday when you're back on this set. It's a one shot scene but it's got a lot of rigging time. You move that to first up on Friday and it'll buy you two hours today without having to go into overtime."

Pete has to concentrate pretty hard to keep his mouth from falling open, on two counts. Not only does it sound like a reasonable suggestion, and coming from an executive that's a surprise, but it's also completely out of line for Patrick to be making scheduling comments. This part shouldn't be a surprise - as a representative of the studio, traditionally, he should be making all kinds of completely inappropriate suggestions. Except that Patrick, so far, has not been a typical studio executive. He's been way less of an asshole.

Pete raises an eyebrow at Joe - it's his toes that Patrick is stepping all over so he should be the one to call foul. Joe just twitches his eyes upwards the way he does when he's mentally reshuffling the schedule and nods. "It'll work, Pete. At the very least it'll help."

"Check with Gerard, if he's fine then call it," Pete tells Joe, trying not to grin. Joe nods and seeks out Gerard, who's studying the bottom of his coffee cup like he's looking for the meaning of life.

Meanwhile, Pete studies Patrick, who’s looking less out of place since he’s had to top up his wardrobe with local purchases. He’s wearing cargoes and a t-shirt with his ever-present trucker’s cap, no tweed or argyle in sight. Pete is so curious what goes on under that hat, and not just hair-wise. Every time he starts thinking he’s got the guy pinned down he does something that goes outside Pete’s diagram.

"You know, you’re too useful to be an executive." The comment sneaks past Pete’s filter, but there’s no point worrying after it’s been said.

Patrick’s answering smile is wry. "You’ve been hanging out with the wrong executives, Wentz."

"They’re all the wrong executives." Pete means it. There’s way more to this guy than any other studio hack he’s had to deal with. All those assholes just pushing their opinion to feel like they’re contributing something, to prove they’re worthy of their enormous salaries despite being less useful than the lowliest runner.

Patrick doesn’t fit that description. He’s something else.

Pete’s not going to tell him that, though. Even if he thought Patrick wanted to hear it. He’s digging around for a change of subject when one presents itself to him perfectly.

Ryan wanders onto set, which is not news, except for how Bob Bryar is following behind him. This is the first time Pete has seen Bob on set for the entire shoot and they are halfway through principal photography. Well wow. Fucking, wow.

"What’s Bob doing on set?" Pete asks no one in particular.

"Looks like he’s... holding your assistant’s hand," Patrick observes drolly and Pete can hear the smile that’s threatening in Patrick’s voice.

He’s so right though; Ryan’s got a loose grip on Bob’s fingers as he leads him past the mess of cable spaghetti and stacks of equipment to the viewing area. Bob looks vaguely out of place but otherwise not entirely unhappy about being on set. He and Ryan settle over by the monitors, chatting to the sound recordist and the script supervisor until Joe calls ‘camera set’ for another take.

There’s a rush of movement as the various crew prepare to roll. Gerard’s still not as on as he usually is, but Ray and his crew are, so they get through that scene and the next three on the call sheet without any trauma. They reschedule scene seventeen and wrap fifteen minutes early. It’s almost a miracle.

Or maybe, it’s just Patrick Stump.

***

Gerard folds himself onto Bob’s couch with a sigh, waving a vague hand to run the dailies. Bob doesn’t, just spins in his chair and waits for Gerard to talk. When Gerard scrapes his hair off his face to find Bob staring him down, the headache he’s been fighting with all day rears up again.

"What? What? Can we please just run the dailies?"

"You sure you want to do that?" Bob leans forward on his knees looking carefully expressionless.

"Why, is there something wrong with them? What did I fuck up?"

"Nothing, no they’re good." Bob shakes his head.

"What then?"

"Gerard, I was on set today."

"I know, I saw you, I said hello." Gerard leaps to the defensive, but that’s not what Bob was getting at and he knows it. Bob waits patiently for the silence to force Gerard’s words out. "Bob, what? Please just ask; I can’t do this today."

"Gee, I haven’t seen you that edgy since you were getting clean. What’s going on? And why is it coming to set with you?"

Gerard sighs and covers his eyes. He knows he’s off today. Mikey spent most of the day eyeing him with suspicion, asking careful questions and siphoning coffee down him so he should’ve figured Bob would notice, too.

"Bob. Can’t I just..."

"I don’t think you _can_ just," Bob says in the careful tone he usually reserves for when he wants to cut something Gerard’s gotten attached to. "You’re bringing it to set. What is it?"

Gerard sighs and mashes his hands over his face. He sighs again, trying to make it sound more pathetic, but Bob just keeps on waiting. He has a ridiculous talent for patience.

Keeping his hands firmly over his over-tired eyes he forces the words out. "I like Brian." He can feel his skin burning under his hands.

"Yeah, I know Gee, its good you guys are getting along. Beats you yelling at him all the time."

"No, Bob." Gerard peels his hands away from his face, focusing on Bob’s shoes. "I don’t just like Brian. I _like_ Brian."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that, too," Bob admits. Gerard glances up, catching the barest hint of a smile on his editor’s face and sort of wants to kill him for making him say it. Or at least hurt him. "So does he like you?"

"It doesn’t matter. It’s not going to happen."

"Gerard. Come on. You’re just gonna dismiss it?"

"It would be completely unprofessional to pursue something." Gerard flops back onto the couch and hides behind his elbow.

"Oh fuck off. It happens all the time. At least Brian is just a stuntie and not one of your lead cast, like Burton or Spielberg."

"I can’t believe you just compared me to Burton and Spielberg." The words mash into Gerard’s sleeve.

"You all have the same job." Bob waves the comment away with a careless hand. "So what, you’re just gonna re-live _Revenge_ all over again and be an asshole to him to try and scare him off?"

Gerard just stares at him. Fucking mindreader.

"That’s a really shitty idea, Gee." Bob’s right. Of course he’s right, he’s _always_ right.

"So what then, Bob? I can’t get involved, I can’t do that again." Gerard stares at his hands, grimy with set-dust.

"Brian isn’t Bert-"

"Off limits!" Gerard shoots up off the couch at the name, shrieking and pointing, "Off limits, Bob, you know that." Bob’s well aware this is not a topic for discussion ever again. Ever.

"Whatever Gee, I’m not bringing him up to rag on you. Brian’s a professional, he’s top of his game and he’s not gonna think fucking the director is some kind of career move."

The words _unlike Bert_ remain unspoken, hanging in the air between them. " How do you know so much?" Gerard asks, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

Bob shrugs. "So we kept in touch after _Revenge_. He’s a good guy, Gerard. He’s not looking for a free ride and he’s six years clean and sober."

"What are you, his publicist?" Gerard’s voice is undeservedly sharp, but he really can’t think about this right now. He can’t think about all of Brian’s box-ticking qualities.

"I’m just a friend okay? Your friend. His friend. Whatever. This isn’t worth killing the film over, Gee."

"I’m not..." Gerard starts to argue, but fuck he was so lost on set today, so completely distracted.

"You could." Bob says it plain and Gerard silently agrees.

He twists his hands together, trying to find a solution but there’s nothing there. This is too big to think about right now. He shouldn’t even be thinking about it at all. He’s keeping his name off the damn whiteboard. "Let’s just watch dailies. Okay? Can we just watch dailies, please?"

"Fine, Gerard, we’ll watch dailies. But one thing, okay? Just one." Bob’s tone has Gerard sitting up, fingers flexing as he waits for it. "Whatever you do, even if you choose to do nothing, will you please just fucking _relax_? The more you freak out, the more you freak everyone else out and that’s when things go south. So just, switch it off okay?"

"Switch it off?" Gerard repeats, voice hollow.

"The crazy. Switch off the fucking crazy already." Bob spins back to his Avid, clicking on a sequence and hitting play. He grabs his screening log and rolls his chair back, eyes fixed on the screen, all his concentration on the pictures in front of him.

Gerard doesn’t absorb the first two takes; he’s still rolling Bob’s advice around in his head. By take three it’s soaked in, a little puddle of resolve for him to dip his feet in when he needs it. He breathes in, focuses and lets go.

Relax. _Relax_? Okay. He can try that. He forces his concentration back onto the dailies and soon he's lost to everything but the footage on the monitor. By the time the screen flashes to black after the last shot is spent, Gerard feels like Bob's advice is already working.

He clambers up from the couch, thanks Bob and grabs his satchel, shoving his shotlist inside carelessly. The move dislodges a newspaper Mikey left out on his desk this morning, folded open to the film reviews page because Mikey is nothing if not subtle.

"You know, Bert's film opens this weekend." Gerard tries to keep his voice casual, his eyes tracing over the words on the page before he shoves it back into his bag. Just bringing up the name after his earlier tantrum is a peace offering.

Bob's well practiced at keeping his expression neutral, so Gerard's not surprised when he doesn't get a visible reaction. "You mean, the one he wanted you to-"

"Direct. Yeah, before..." Gerard waves a hand, not wanting to put words to the wreckage of that relationship.

"You going to go see it?" Bob asks, his monitor emitting a musical beep as he shuts it off.

"No." Gerard answers too quickly, shaking his head emphatically. When Bob glances up from his monitor, he's wearing one of his patented Bryar stares. This one says quite clearly that he's not buying whatever Gerard's selling, but he doesn't say anything out loud. For that, Gerard will remain eternally grateful.

***

"Travis!" Patrick's eyes light up as a very tired and bent figure shambles into the production office dragging a battered suitcase behind him. Pete watches, a warm feeling diffusing through him as Patrick leaps from behind his desk to envelop his fresh-off-the-plane assistant in a tight hug.

Patrick isn't usually much of a hugger. Pete's managed to get a couple of the one-armed, back-patting variety out of him (after a whole lot of effort) so he just put it down to the guy being all executive-like and shy. Which doesn't gel at all with the giant clutchy bear hug he's giving Travis, and Pete can't help the little twinge of envy he gets at the sight. Patrick barely comes up to the guy's shoulder and all Pete can see of the taller man is a rumpled hoodie and a mess of afro curls sticking out from under a battered baseball cap.

"They made me fly coach," Travis groans into Patrick's hat.

"I know, I'm sorry, I swear I tried - we tried." Patrick throws a glance over his shoulder toward Pete - because they did try, both of them, to get Travis' ticket upgraded to business class but Meyer was not budging on it. "Meyer was being stubborn."

"Meyer's an asshole."

"Say it a little louder Travis, I don't think they picked that up on the hidden microphone." Pete can't stop himself from chiming in; he's starting to like this Travis guy already. "I'm Pete, by the way." He steps forward, offering his hand and Travis disentangles himself from Patrick long enough to give it a firm shake.

"Pete Wentz, hey? Nice to meet you. Patrick here’s been going on and on about you. All good of course." Travis gives him a wide grin, flashing silver grills and Pete’s feeling a helluva lot less badass than he usually does. This guy is tattooed and punctured all over, not at all what Pete was expecting. He isn't sure exactly _why_ he was expecting Patrick’s assistant to be... well, sort of a mini-Patrick complete with vest and hat, but he was quite mistaken.

"I hope so," Pete says with a smile, desperately curious to know exactly _what_ Patrick’s been saying and this seems to twig Travis to his loose mouth.

"Sorry, man. You need to ignore me. I didn’t sleep at all on the flight; all twisted up like some damn pretzel." Travis scratches a hand up through his hair under the cap, swaying a little as he speaks. The guy looks even more wrecked than Patrick did when he was fresh off the plane.

"What are you even doing here? Why didn’t you just go straight to your place and crash?" There’s an edge of exasperation in Patrick’s voice.

"No way, Trick, you know the rules. I gotta stay conscious ‘til at least eight ‘o clock or my body clock will be messed up for weeks."

"Well at least go dump your stuff, take a shower, get some food, or something."

Pete has to smother a smile; this exactly the kind of talk he and Ryan would be having except it would be Ryan telling Pete what to do.

"You looking to get rid of me already? I just got here!"

"I’ve gotten by without you for weeks now, I can handle a few more hours." Patrick’s already manhandling Travis towards the door and shoving him out unceremoniously. "Go like, mess up your room, or something."

Pete gives the runner Brendon a wave and he’s already moving, catching up with Travis and taking his bag.

Patrick wanders back into the office, wearing a relaxed smile that looks unfamiliar on him.

"Better?" Pete asks, thinking he already knows the answer.

"Yeah," Patrick nods. "It’s just... more normal now."

"Good. We aim for normal." Pete can relate. There’s nothing like having one person around who knows you so well to make a foreign country feel more like home. Something about the looser set of Patrick’s shoulders and the remnant of a soft smile on his mouth makes all the arguing and budget-fucking they had to pull to find the money to bring Travis over worth it. It’s a scary thought that Pete’s taking so much joy from pleasing a studio exec.

"He’s gonna fucking hate the Gold Coast, though," Patrick states with a twist on his lip that’s nearly a smile and Pete knows he’s right.

"Don’t we all?" he counters, as Patrick flops back into his chair. He lets his head fall back and the movement dislodges his hat slightly. It doesn't come off, but a mess of strawberry blonde hair spills out, falling over his forehead. Pete's mouth goes suddenly dry at the sight, his entire body freezing into stillness. It barely lasts a moment, because Patrick shoves the hair back into his hat in a practiced way, hat never leaving his head.

There's a tightness in Pete's chest and he knows he's staring, that he should shift his gaze off Patrick now. But he can't move, can't force his eyes away.

Fuck, he knows that twinge, what that ache under his ribcage means and its bad news. This is not the way it's supposed to go. It's supposed to be _Pete_ getting _Patrick_ on side. He's supposed to be charming the executive into compliance, not the other way around. Sometimes his heart has no survival instinct at all.

"Pete? Earth to Pete?" Patrick finally notices that Pete's gone catatonic on him. Pete gives himself a shake and tries to disconnect from just how clear and intensely green Patrick's eyes look under the fluorescents.

"Sorry, I was on a neighboring planet."

"I noticed." Patrick's look is assessing, but he doesn't pry any further. "I was saying we should go back to that Thai place again tonight."

"You know you should just save yourself some money and propose to the chef already. Then you could just eat kailan forever." Pete pushes himself up from where he's perched on the edge of his desk and flops down into his chair. Their nightly dinners became habitual fast, a fact Pete’s pretty proud of.

"You're right; you can help me pick out a ring." Patrick shoots him a sideways smile across their shared office.

"Diamonds. It's gotta be diamonds," Pete decrees, settling at his computer and popping open a few items in his ever-full inbox. He needs something else to concentrate on right now; something to distract him from a whole lot of bad ideas involving Patrick Stump and his mouth.

***

Gerard doesn't tell anyone where he's going when he leaves Bob's cutting room at the end of day forty-two. He sends Mikey home without him, and drives himself off the lot in the rental car he hasn't used in weeks. Instead of heading straight to his apartment in Main Beach, he turns off at the Australia Fair shopping centre, parking his rental in the lot closest to the cinemas.

There's an uncomfortable twist in his stomach when he hands over the colorful plastic currency to the young girl at the ticket booth, purchasing his ticket for a film which, if things had gone differently two years ago, he might have directed. He's a little early for the nine o' clock session, but he heads into the dim theatre anyway. He takes a seat in the back third, slightly off centre, his usual spot for screenings. He's the first one in the cinema and as the minutes pass to a tinny soundtrack of songs he hasn't heard for at least a decade, not many other patrons join him. It's not surprising given the late hour and the scathing reviews the film has been receiving.

He sits through the previews with a sense of dread, wound tight by the time the Universal logo spins on the screen. When the opening credits start to roll and there are four names on the writer's card, Gerard sucks in a breath. When he read the script for _In Love And Death_ two years ago, there was only one name on the cover, and in Gerard's opinion in needed a good script editor, but not the kind of rewrites three additional writers would indicate. Adding this many writers to the project has the stink of studio interference hanging heavy on it.

The rank smell of studio bullshit only grows stronger when the editing card flashes up and there are three names on it. Dan Whitesides is no surprise, he's Quinn Allman's usual editor, but the two names below his on the card are Benjamin and Joel Madden. Gerard recognizes those names instantly as Universal's "fixers", the hacks they send in when a film isn't going where they want it to and they want to steer it into a more studio and audience-friendly direction.

When the producers card fades up and Bert McCracken's name shares the screen with five others, all Universal guys, Gerard's fingers clench and dig into the worn material of the seat arms. This has all the markings of a studio coup.

There's no satisfaction in being proven right, but he is before the first reel change. Character names haven't changed, but large story elements have. Clunky new dialogue is wedged into scenes unnecessarily and there's large slabs of expositional voiceover that wasn't in the script Gerard read. The overall effect of all these changes, is to erode the tone of despair and gritty realism that was so evident in the script. Universal have taken a film that should have been another _Requiem For A Dream_ and turned it into a Hallmark movie.

Gerard sits stiffly in his seat, fighting the urge to walk out of the cinema. There's still an echo of the script he read, but the studio has manhandled the story of one couple's spiral into addiction and tragedy into a moralist lecture on rehabilitation.

By the final reel, he knows to expect the worst, but he's not prepared for the ending. The original script had ended tragically and beautifully, the main female protagonist dying of an overdose and taking the couple's unborn child with her. As it was written, it had the potential to be a gutting and visceral cinematic experience, with the briefest hint of hope that the central male character would survive, go on to find his way on without her. It was challenging and heart-breaking and, in Gerard's opinion, one of best elements of the script.

Universal have played down the overdose scene dramatically and reefed out everything after it, replacing the death with a stilted hospital scene showing the female lead in full recovery. It's sickening to watch., Gerard can almost see the red studio pen slicing through the script pages and cutting away the heart of the film, only to replace it with formulaic tripe. It's all too obvious what's happened here. They've tried to squeeze a dangerous and challenging peg into a safe and audience-pleasing hole.

Gerard's the only one left in the cinema as the credits roll, white names blurring in front of him as he fights down rising bile in his throat. There's no love lost between him and Bert, not after what happened two years ago, but that doesn't mean it's easy to watch the wreckage that was once his project. Gerard wouldn’t wish this treatment on anyone.

As he unfolds his stiff body from the theatre seat, Gerard firms his resolve. This will not happen to _The Umbrella Academy_. No way. He won't let it.

He'll keep the studio away with his bare hands if he has to.

***

When Pete gets to his office a few minutes later than usual on day forty-five, he's a little surprised to find Gerard and Patrick already in residence, in the middle of a heated discussion. Pete juggles the two takeaway coffees he's carrying, checking to make sure Gerard is clutching his own cup before he enters with his and Patrick's. No point taunting the angry director with caffeine if he doesn't have any of his own.

He sucks in a breath before he steps into the fray, already fairly certain he knows the topic of discussion.

"It can just be a series of scenes, not even ten minutes worth." Patrick is saying as Pete slips in, carefully depositing Patrick's coffee on his desk before sliding into his own chair and acting politely disinterested. He pops open a series of emails on his computer as Gerard ploughs in.

"I don't see why Tom is so desperate to see cut footage. He's getting the dailies every day, he can see everything we're doing. Fuck, with the time difference he's getting to see dailies before _I_ do." Gerard's voice is carefully level, and Pete knows he's projecting more calm than he's feeling.

Pete's been expecting this issue to come out soon, Tom's gone from dropping heavy hints to making very specific requests for cut footage and Gerard has been studiously ignoring them.

"Seeing raw footage doesn't give anywhere near as much of a feel for the film as seeing cut scenes, I don't have to tell you that." Patrick counters.

"He can wait 'til the Director's cut." Everything in Gerard's demeanor is stubborn. "He can see the whole thing then."

"By which time you'll no longer be shooting and you won't be able to address his feedback."

"He's already giving us plenty of feedback on the dailies." Gerard waves a hand, the tremble in his fingers a telling clue that he's fighting heavy frustration. "The lighting's too dark, the scene needs to be more colorful, he's worried about Maggie's performance - god Maggie, of anyone is the least of our problems! I'm already getting plenty of feedback here, I don't need more." Gerard plasters on a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. He dances his weight between his feet the way he always does when he's wound up. "I didn't show the studio a frame of cut footage on _Bullets_ or _Revenge_ before the Director's cut and it was not a big deal."

"Those two films had a fraction of this budget, and neither one of them had a big Christmas release date, going up against a Twilight film."

"We're going up against a Twilight film?" Pete jumps in, the words out of his mouth before he's even registered saying them.

The side of Patrick's mouth pulls up in a wry grin as he glances over at Pete. "Looks like it. Even if we don't share release dates, it'll be damn close."

"You know, the fact that the studio think we share more than the tiniest scrap of our audience with a 'tween vampire film shows just how little they know about _Umbrella Academy_." Gerard's trying, Pete can tell, but he's having trouble masking his disgust.

Pete opens his mouth to jump in before this degenerates into something ugly, but Patrick beats him to it.

"Look, Gerard, you and I both know you don't have to show him anything cut 'til the Director's Cut. You don't _have_ to, but it could be really helpful to you and to the film."

Gerard laughs, "Why, because his feedback is going to be _so_ useful?"

Patrick doesn't even flinch at the remark. Pete's impressed. "It would be a show of faith." Patrick proposes, "A show of trust and you know, it could put him in a good frame of mind for the rest of the project." Patrick pushes up from where he's leaning on his desk to approach Gerard, "He just wants to feel involved. You give him some cut scenes, maybe he won't have to look at dailies so hard."

Pete has to catch his breath at the look of absolute sincerity Patrick is wearing. As the studio's representative, Patrick has no choice but to push Tom's agenda, but the way he's talking, Pete can't tell if this is a particularly good pitch, or if Patrick is truly trying to share some advice with Gerard. If he's bullshitting, he's doing a damn good job.

Pete can see Gerard falter. He chews his lip and for a long moment he looks like he's seriously considering sending the scenes. Then he shakes his head like a wet dog, his brow furrowed with resolve.

"No. Look, thanks for your advice Patrick, but I'm not ready for the studio to see cuts yet. They'll just have to wait."

"That's your call." Patrick says it with respect, but Pete can tell from pull of his mouth that Patrick thinks it's the wrong decision.

"Yeah, it is." Gerard agrees, putting some force behind his words.

Before the standoff can get any more uncomfortable, Brendon taps gently on the door, "Ah, Elizabeth from accounts needs some signatures for Purchase Orders. Should I tell her to wait?" Brendon's doing a light nervous shuffle in the doorway, his eyes dancing between Gerard, Pete and Patrick.

"It's alright, I'll do it." Patrick says, looking relieved at the excuse to leave the room. He grabs a pen from his desk and follows Brendon out. When he's well out of earshot, Gerard shoots a sideways look at Pete.

"Thanks for backing me up there." Gerard's voice is heavy with irony.

"What? You were doing fine." Pete gives Gerard his best smile. "Besides, I think you should hear him out. Patrick knows Tom, and he hasn't steered us wrong yet."

"I don't trust him, and you shouldn't either." Gerard flops down onto Pete's very comfortable couch. "Don’t forget whose side he's on. I mean, I know you share an office with him and you guys are besties now, but-"

"We're not besties, Gee. I'm just keeping him sweet." Pete crosses the office to sit beside Gerard, keeping his voice light. "You know, I think he might be more on our side than you think."

"That's what he wants you to think." Gerard grumbles, fisting a hand through his hair which is stressed-out-Gerard levels of fucked up.

"Why are you so against showing them stuff anyway? It's not like anything they say will be any worse than the notes you're getting on the dailies."

Gerard sighs, leaning back into the soft cushions and twirling a lock of hair around his finger. "I just want it to be mine for a little longer. Is that bad? You know, before the hacks start tearing it up?"

"Who says they're going to tear it up?" Pete quirks an eyebrow at Gerard. Gerard just shakes his head, picking at a loose thread in the couch.

"It's what they do. I've seen it before. Studios are great at destroying things. They rip apart good films all the time, trying to turn them into something they're not."

"That doesn't mean it's going to happen on this one."

"Give me one good reason why not." Gerard argues, dragging his eyes up from the couch to challenge Pete.

At that moment, Pete can only think of one good reason, and he left the room with Brendon just moments ago.

***

The next weeks pass in a blur of color and movement. Gerard holds tight to Bob's advice and tries to relax, concentrating every moment he's not sleeping, eating or jerking-off on making the film. Sometimes even those times as well, thoughts chasing through his mind every conscious moment. It can be surprising where and when a vision will suddenly crystallize.

He stops fighting his attraction to Brian. He doesn't do shit about it, but he makes a real effort to let go of the guilt and fear that he usually carries with it and just lets himself appreciate Brian for what he is - a good looking, personable guy who's really fucking good at his job. A member of his crew. The work he does on the carnival scenes is pretty much amazing, making Gerard shriek with delight while he's watching it back on the monitors with Pete, who just smiles wide and thankfully doesn't say "I told you so."

Tom's notes on the dailies continue to escalate in frequency and ridiculousness. He goes from inane script notes requesting heavily expository dialogue, to a screaming panic over a lighting set up that's, in his words, "too dark". There's a hissy fit over Bradley's facial hair and a full blown clusterfuck over the perceived homoerotic tension between Kraken and Spaceboy. Gerard is pretty sure he's being punished, but he still can't bring himself to part with any cuts. Patrick still brings the question of sending scenes to LA up from time to time; but it's always in a resigned fashion that tells Gerard he's not expecting a change of answer.

Wrap draws closer and closer and Gerard still can't quite believe it. They're down to their final days of bluescreen work and it looks likely they'll finish only three days over schedule. Three days - this is unheard of. _Revenge_ went over by two weeks and it had less money to play with. Gerard knows he owes a lot to this to his crew being incredibly committed and dedicated. A lot of late nights, early mornings and lost weekends have gotten them where they are and Gerard wants something more than words to give back to his crew.

Something better than a cap or a t-shirt, too. When Pete suggests a hoodie he nearly slaps him. It needs to be more than some screen printed freebie, he wants the crew gift to really mean something, to really rock. He's starting to obsess over it too much when Frank suddenly displays his genius.

"What about your original character sketches? Do a limited print run of each of the characters, stamp 'em and sign 'em and give one to each member of the crew. Shit, Gerard if the film does well they could be worth something someday," Frank mutters around his cigarette and it takes all Gerard's will power not to kiss the man in front of his fiancée .

"You're a fucking genius."

"Yeah well, that's why they pay me the big bucks." Frank grins around the butt and the threaded needle crammed between his lips.

When the last day of shoot dawns, the prints are sitting in stacks on a couple of trestle tables in the production office, bagged and tagged and Gerard's wrist is still a little sore from signing all three hundred of them. They're a hit with the majority of the crew and Gerard hopes he won't see too many of them turn up on eBay, but whatever, they belong to the crew now, they can choose what to do with them. Vanya, Kraken and The Boy are proving the most popular characters since its first in first served.

Somehow the wrap shot ends up being of Kodi and it's not exactly the most exciting shot in the film, but it's needed. The last few days have all been in front of the bluescreen on Stage Nine and Kodi's dangling from wires in his harness, Brian watching on carefully. The kid's a natural at the anti-gravity stuff and Gerard's got what he needs by take three, but they're still half an hour ahead so he gives the kid his head and tells him to improvise. Take four is golden, with some fantastic emotions Bob will probably steal for a variety of scenes and Gerard's grinning so hard when he yells "cut" he's surprised the word doesn't come out slurred.

Ray gives him the nod that the footage is good and he tells Joe he's happy, he's got everything he needs.

"You want to do the honors?" Joe asks with a smile and Gerard can only nod happily, climbing up on a chair in front of the bluescreen.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you've been amazing. I couldn't have asked for a better crew. Every single one of you has a piece of _The Umbrella Academy_ \- and _The Umbrella Academy_ has got a piece of you." Gerard glances around at the faces of his crew, sweaty, tired, smudged with set-grime, but they're all watching him and the excitement in the room is palpable. Even the off-set crew are here, production, post and art department faces scattered among the usual crew, all gathered for the traditional wrap shot. "Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart." He raises his arms above his head with possibly a little too much theatricality, "That, my friends, is a wrap!"

The gathered crew burst into applause, hooting with enthusiasm and laughter. Pete reaches up an arm and helps him down from the chair, grabbing him into a hug and Gerard feels like he might explode from happiness. He can't believe how far they've come, that all the shooting is done. It's a blur of faces, arms and bodies as he’s pulled from hug to handshake to hug. He sinks into every one, not even stiffening when it's Brian's arms folding around him, although his heartbeat shoots up and skitters. He squeezes the stunt coordinator back, letting his chin drop to rest on Brian's shoulder.

"Thanks. Really. You're amazing. I'm so glad you took a chance on this." He says it with complete sincerity and Brian's smile is blinding.

"It's a real pleasure Gerard. Don't worry, I told my agent to take you off the blacklist." Gerard snorts out a laugh before he's dragged away by more waiting hands, shouting, "See you at the wrap party!" before he loses Brian's face in the shuffle of bodies.

***

"Ryan, I could really care less about what you're wearing! I'm sure Bob will still want to fuck your br-, oh hi, Gerard." The squeak of the front door opening the rest of the way is the only sound as Pete realizes no, it wasn't Ryan knocking on his door but the fucking _director_. "You don't want any fashion advice do you? Because I'm still not sold on the fourth grade history professor look, though the tie is nice," Pete finishes with a bright smile.

"Don't make me second guess coming down here, Pete," Gerard warns, all business. By "down here" he means the three floors down from his twenty-first floor apartment to Pete's eighteenth floor apartment. Gerard's view is nicer. Pete's none too happy about what this says about production's priorities and where he lies in that hierarchy.

"What can I do for you? Run out of instant? Want a diet coke?" Pete wanders into the far-too-white apartment adorned with random paintings of dolphins and ocean views (like every other apartment on the Gold Coast, they are definitely working from the same _Vacuous Shallow Holiday Apartments For Dummies_ Manual.) "You need to borrow a shirt for the wrap party? We're about the same size, I can lend you one."

"That's a very generous offer, but no." Gerard's smiling his "I'm just humoring you" smile at Pete and Pete totally gets it. This isn't a recreational visit. Despite the fact that they've wrapped the shoot and the wrap party is in, oh, three hours, Gerard has decided to march business talk right into Pete's IKEA-furnished living room. "I've got something want to show you."

"Hmm?" Pete flops onto the not-really-terribly-comfortable sofa, waiting for the random sketches of the Eiffel Tower or a scrawly diagram of a titles design, when Gerard dumps a thick script in his lap.

"Dallas?" he asks, before even looking at the cover page. "The sequel? I thought you were only at treatment stage?"

"No." Gerard shakes his head, smile twitching at his lip. Pete looks down at the pile of bound white paper in his lap, reading the title in courier 12 point.

"The Black Parade? What is this?" Pete can't keep the confusion out of his voice. Printed beneath the script title is the text _Screenplay by Gerard Way_. "You changing plans for the sequel?"

"No." Gerard shakes his head, dropping into an armchair by Pete, "This is a different project. It's kind of my baby."

Pete stares at the script in his lap. He'd heard the odd murmur about Gerard's pet project, a new script he's been sitting on and waiting for some real monetary support to make, properly, with full creative control. He'd had hints from Gerard's agent, from Bob and even Ray, and if they know about it, it means their names are scrawled on the gilded invitation into Gerard's pet project. Pete looks down at the bound pages and knows this is his name being added to that very short list.

"Gerard-" It's not often that Pete runs out of words. Luckily Gerard cuts him off so no one needs to know this was going to be one of those times.

"I'd like you to read it. I want to hear your thoughts, opinions, constructive criticism. I'd also like to know if you'd be interested in coming on board as a producer. I don't have any financial backing yet, though I definitely have some interest. I need to be real careful who I go with though, I was hoping you could help me with that." Gerard's gaze is carefully measured, waiting for Pete's reaction.

"Of course. Of course," Pete waves the script at Gerard, feeling suddenly light. His mind is a scramble of thoughts, the first one being fuck, this isn't some studio hack handing him a film because he thinks Pete can get it in on time and under-budget. This is a director - an artist - recognizing and singling him out as someone who can help bring his vision to the screen. And fuck Pete sideways if he isn't that person. Hell, he already has the name picked out for his own production company, hypothetically speaking of course.

He lifts the script from his lap, feeling the weight of it in his fingers. "Gerard, I know how big this. So thanks. Thanks for trusting me with it."

"Don't get ahead of yourself - your name's watermarked on every page." Gerard grins, but the jibe is ironic. This is so much more than copyright, watermark or leaked pages, this is Gerard trusting him with his _baby_. Ideas, concepts, the big picture. "I don't want to see it on eBay."

Pete laughs stiffly, giving Gerard a small salute.

The white pages are heavy in his hands as he walks Gerard out, the paper warm under his fingers from his firm grip.

"See you at the wrap party."

"See you later, Pete." Gerard gives him a smile before spinning on his heel to head for the elevator.

Pete leans on the door as it closes, leafing through the script to check the page count and see if he has time enough time to burn through it before Ryan's due to pick him up for the party.

Fuck it, they can be late. He's reading this now.

***

The wrap party is held at a fancy venue overlooking the water down at the Marina Mirage. It’s huge and already packed by the time Gerard and Mikey show up, Gerard stubbornly sporting his waistcoat-and-tie outfit despite Mikey’s ribbing. The open bar has got the crew bubbling already; everywhere Gerard looks there are congratulatory back pats and messy smiles. It’s going to be a big night for a lot of these guys. The bulk of the crew won't be going on to post production in LA, so this is their last hurrah.

Fueled by alcohol, the number of names on the whiteboard will likely triple before the night is over.

Ray spots him immediately, dragging him into a hug and pulling Gerard into his circle of camera crew. It’s the first of endless conversations about how great the film is, how wonderful it looks, sounds and feels; how it'll set the world on fire. Gerard knows better than to take it all to heart, but the words still buoy his spirits, filling him with an intense elation and excitement.

He feeds all this good feeling back to the gathered crew when he makes his thank you speech, dragging the key cast up with him and forcing the microphone onto each of them to say their part. He hasn't got words enough to say thanks to the glowing faces beneath him, but he does his best, pouring out his gratitude before he throws to the gag reel Bob and Spencer have put together.

The room breaks into raucous laughter as they watch the assembled line fluffs, slip ups and trips, interspersed with shots of the crew looking sheepish and shy. He’s in there, of course, waving vaguely at the camera and pulling a face. There is even footage of Bob and Spencer, Ray’s hand forcing the edit room door open and Bob trying to wave him away. When Brian’s face fills the screen, pointing at the camera and smiling wide, Gerard’s heart skips a little.

He hasn’t seen Brian yet tonight. He’s not surprised to discover that he wants to, and maybe it’s just the incredible mood of the night, the celebratory elation that’s flowing through the room as steadily as the alcohol behind the bar. Or maybe it’s just Bob’s single-word advice he's listening to, when he embraces the impulse and decides to seek Brian out.

It takes a while to disentangle from the grinning cast members once the reel ends, pressing through hazy-eyed smiles and sloppy laughter, scanning the crowd for Brian. It got late fast. The dance floor is packed, which undoubtedly means most people are at least tipsy, but probably more pushing drunk. The smell of liquor is ripe in the room and it wrinkles Gerard’s nose. He’s not even a little bit tempted to swap his diet coke for something harder. He doesn’t need it. He feels fucking invincible.

Frank appears like a ninja, grabbing him around the neck and spinning him in a circle. He smells like beer but his eyes are clear and sharp, crinkled at the corners with his enormous grin. He slaps Gerard in the chest and demands, "Smoke with me," snaring Gerard’s wrist and dragging him outside to the long patio overlooking the marina.

It’s a random collection of revelers scattered around outside. The smokers are huddled down one end, plus a few of the more seasoned crew members who are just looking for an escape from the bass-thumping music inside, with the odd amorous couple hiding in the darker corners. Gerard’s mentally adding names to the whiteboard already, the most notable of which is his own brother and Alicia who, while not involved in any tongue hockey, are standing far too close for a polite chat.

Well, good on Mikey. Gerard always thought Alicia was pretty all right.

"It’s gonna look beautiful," Frank says, leaning of the railing and breathing out smoke. "The film, I mean."

"That’s all you, Frank, you and Ray," Gerard admits, lighting his own Marlboro and sucking in smoke.

"There’s no point making it look good if no one wants to watch it." Frank has a point. "I know a lot of people are gonna write it off as just another comic book movie, but it isn’t, Gee." He turns away from whatever he was looking at, fixing his eyes on Gerard. "It’s better. So thanks." He sticks out a hand and shakes vigorously when Gerard grips it. "It’s nice to be on a good one for a change."

Gerard has no idea what to say to that. Frank’s honesty is more affecting than all the back slaps and smiles he’s been getting tonight. Before he has a chance to form an answer, Frank's already crushing out his cigarette into an ashtray and pressing past him and back inside, muttering something about not leaving his fiancée unattended for too long.

Gerard gives his shoulder a squeeze as he passes and leans back on the railing, fighting down a heady bubble of euphoria. He finishes his cigarette slowly, glad for the moment of almost-peace.

"You got a light?" A body slides in beside him, leaning on the railing and when Gerard turns his head to find Brian smiling at him and waving an unlit cigarette he smiles right back, reaching for his lighter.

"I was about to go looking for you," Gerard admits, as he leans forward to light Brian’s cigarette.

"Sure you were." Brian’s grin is wry around his cigarette as he inhales.

"No, really. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you yet tonight."

"I can," Brian states on an outward breath, "There’s a lot of people wanting to talk to you tonight, Gerard, and I know I’m not your favorite person."

Gerard’s conscience twinges at the last comment. He hasn't been as good at distancing himself from Brian without it coming of stand-offish as he thought. "That’s not true," he argues, eyes flicking to the ground and back up again, cataloguing every inch of the stuntman on the return journey and fuck, he looks gorgeous tonight. Nothing over the top, just neat jeans and motorcycle boots with an industrial-style dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, but the overall effect is mouthwatering. His hair’s shiny and spiked, his skin fresh and clean shaven and Gerard knows he’s staring.

"Isn’t it?" Brian challenges, quirking an eyebrow. "So what, I _am_ your favorite then?"

"Of course," Gerard bluffs, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He can always hide the truth under a joke, right?

Brian picks up on it though, somehow seeing more than he should. It’s probably in the twitch of Gerard’s brow, the tremor in his lips.

"You know you are the king of mixed signals, Gerard." He says it with a headshake, still keeping some semblance of the conversation being light and shallow.

Gerard’s heart trips, pulse racing, but he holds tight to that one word _relax,_ Bob’s voice echoing in his head. "I didn’t realize you were paying attention to my _signals_." Jesus Christ is he _flirting_?

"Well _you_ certainly aren’t. You kind of suck at this." Brian cracks a smile, and somewhere in Gerard’s head there’s an alarm going off. This is the point where he should pull away. This is when he needs to look for Mikey, or go to the bar, or find the restroom. That's how it works. This is the part where he should withdraw, like he always does.

Except tonight he doesn’t want to.

"What is _this_?" he asks, trying to ignore the way his heart’s beating in his ears. He can tell Brian’s surprised by the question, and that he’s still here to ask it.

"What do you want it to be?" As always, Brian gets straight to the point, but Gerard doesn’t know the answer. A fling, a showmance, a one night stand? Friends who fuck? Two professionals working together who happen to be dating? Fuck, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to think, he just wants to _do_.

"Brian." The name drops from his mouth before he knows what words to put after it. _Relax. Relax. Relax._ is chanting through his head on repeat, but it’s not working. He can’t get enough air into his lungs.

Brian just looks at him, waiting, displaying a calm patience that would rival Bob’s. He’s not going to move first. If Gerard wants this, he has to be the one to do it. So he does.

He takes a tiny step toward Brian, leaning close and he nearly faints with relief when Brian moves in to meet him halfway. The kiss starts hesitant, a gentle press of lips, until Brian’s hand finds the back of his head, guiding him closer. Gerard has to swallow a moan as the kiss deepens, his mouth softening to let Brian’s tongue find his, sinking into it, the warm liquid rush of arousal soaking down his limbs.

He can’t fathom why he ran from this; why he fought so hard to keep it from happening. His hands flutter up to rest on Brian’s shoulders, warm hard heat under his fingers, Brian’s mouth on his, moving and sucking. His arms slide up to lock around Brian’s neck, his body easing closer until they’re pressed chest to chest. The hand in Gerard’s hair tightens and there’s a warm grip on his waist, pulling him in tighter. Their bodies fit together like they’re part of some larger plan and Gerard just loses himself in the feel of Brian’s lips, the stroke of his tongue, the tug of fingers in his hair.

They stumble backwards, the railing hitting hard against Gerard’s spine but it barely registers above the blood rush in his ears, the hot press of Brian’s body against his; so, so good. It’s like someone opened the floodgates on his desire and now he can’t switch it off, he’s drowning in it. Brian’s keeping him afloat though, firm lips, press of his tongue, hard grip of his fingers keeping Gerard upright.

He scrambles an arm behind him to keep from stumbling, bumping something hard and light off the railing – the ashtray. If fate had any decency it would fall over the edge, splash into the marina, lost and quiet. Gerard’s not that lucky; it falls inwards, landing on the hard floor with a loud clatter, startling both he and Brian and anyone in their immediate vicinity.

Survival instinct kicks in and Gerard leaps backwards, smashing his hip on the railing with a blossom of pain as his, already escalated, heartbeat multiplies. Fuck. _Fuck_. He just can’t do things by halves, can he? If he’s going to fall off the fucking set romance wagon he’s got to do it at the fucking wrap party, in front of half a dozen production staff and enough various department members that the news will be well circulated by the end of the night.

He can barely bring himself to look at Brian, see those wet, swollen lips, the hazy eyes watching him. Waiting to see how Gerard will react.

His first instinct is to run, get out, disappear. He knows instantly that’s no option; flouncing off now won't erase anyone’s memory of what they’ve just seen. His name's going to be on the whiteboard, on the fucking whiteboard, after all this time.

In the end he does the only thing he can do; he swallows down his panic and shoots a withering glare in a wide arc, like a scatterbomb. A clear "none of your fucking business" look.

And then he runs. Or rather, stumbles on uncooperative feet back through the venue, out through the throngs of people loitering by the front doors, until he reaches the quiet of the parking lot.

Being outside in the relative silence, the venue noise dropped to a low hum, makes his own screaming thoughts that much louder. Loudest of all is simply the word _stupid_ repeated ad infinitum. He leans his hands on the hood of a nearby car, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingers, trying to force the mess of self recrimination down.

He could just walk out to the street, flag a cab and go home. Just leave. Walk away from it all. Except it would be waiting for him the second he stepped back into the production office. And as much as he wants to run from this, the film is too much, he can’t sacrifice it.

His shoes grind on the blacktop, starting to turn, feet ready to take him back into the fray, to face the goddamn music.

He doesn’t get to take a step before Brian’s on him, a full body slam that flattens Gerard back against the door of the car, mouth coming down on his, hard and firm and so perfect Gerard’s trembling from it. He kisses back without thought, sinking into it, grabbing desperately at Brian’s back, waist, ass, just needing to hang on to him. It’s far less gentle than their first hesitant kiss; Brian’s going in like he knows he’s welcome, taking a handful of Gerard’s hair and another of his ass, shoving their bodies together and groaning into Gerard’s mouth.

Fuck, if Gerard isn’t going to white-out from it. It feels like his whole body is sizzling against the cool night air, and everywhere Brian’s touching him is prickling with sweat. He can’t help rocking his hips up against Brian’s, getting an answering shove back as Brian grinds him into the car. He squirms, rubbing himself mindlessly against Brian, hopelessly lost in the rough rasp of Brian’s tongue, hard press of his body, hot burn in his crotch. He sucks on Brian’s tongue, nearly melting at the strangled noise it incites, swallowing it down.

It’s messy and desperate and the only thing stopping Gerard from expiring on the spot from pure mortification is the fact that Brian is exactly where he is - making noises of want, body thrumming with lust. It’s everything his body wants and nothing his mind can deal with, but thank god he doesn’t have to, because there’s no way his brain is functioning right now.

Maybe the evacuation plan could still work; the taxi stand isn’t far and his apartment has a king size bed. Fuck, that’s an idea. His fingers are tightening on Brian’s shoulder, ready to push back, break the kiss and share this revelation when Brian catches his bottom lip between his teeth and bites, just gently, but still _bites_ , making Gerard’s brain unwire completely. His knees liquefy, dropping his feet from under him so he slams back hard against the car. He doesn’t even register the jarring thud, as Brian’s sucking along with the biting now, suckling and pulling and oh fuck oh _fuck_. There’s an alarm going off in his head.

No, not in his head, literally. They’ve set off the fucking car alarm.

In the too-long moments it takes Gerard’s brain to register that no, it isn’t in his head, it’s coming from the Mercedes right behind them, shrieking shrilly into the too-quiet night, at least a dozen people have noticed them. The darkness might be some assistance in keeping their identities sealed, but Gerard’s not at all confident.

When Brian’s hand wraps firmly around his wrist, dragging him stumbling towards the road, he follows. He should tell Mikey he’s leaving, he should grab his coat from the cloakroom, and he shouldn’t just disappear like this. Those thoughts don’t keep him from following Brian to the taxi stand, or into a waiting cab, fingers dancing on his leg the whole way back to his apartment building. Brian’s apartment is on the fifth floor, he knows this, but he punches the button for level twenty-one anyway.

As soon as the doors seal shut Brian’s mouth covers his and they’re locked at lip, chest and hip for twenty one floors.

The chime of the elevator drags them apart and Gerard’s keys are a puzzle beyond what his lust-drugged fingers can decipher. A frustrated noise escapes him before Brian’s fingers close over his, guiding the keys to the not-quite-all-the-way-in sweet spot that has the door popping open.

Once they're inside he barely gets the door closed before Brian's kissing him up against it, body all warm, hard and close, tongue in his mouth. Gerard can't help but whine and press closer, fingers fumbling under Brian's shirt to the hot skin underneath. Muscles tense beneath his fingers, a throaty noise escaping Brian's mouth as he pulls Gerard forwards.

There's barely enough light spilling in from the windows to see by, but they manage not to destroy any furnishings as they stumble blindly into the bedroom, lips never leaving each other's. The back of Gerard's knees hit the edge of the bed and he falls backwards onto it, a rush of air leaving his lips as he lands. Brian climbs on top of him immediately, body covering his and the warm weight is delicious. He grabs a handful of Brian's ass, pulling their hips tight, reveling in the hard press of Brian's arousal pushed against his own.

Christ, how many times has he thought of this, run it through his mind lying on this very bed? Fuck, he can't even count.

Brian's fumbling with the buttons on Gerard's vest, brow pinched in concentration, lips pink and wet, and Gerard can still taste them on his mouth. He licks his lips, devouring the sight until it isn't enough and he arches up off the bed to capture Brian's mouth again. Brian's hands fall still on Gerard's buttons as he kisses back, fingers clenching in the fabric as his tongue finds Gerard's again. They tussle like that for endless minutes, lost in the kiss, desperate for more contact but reluctant to stop long enough to fathom their way out of their clothes.

There's a groan on Gerard's lips as Brian pushes himself up, cool air rushing between them as he sits up, yanking open buttons on his dress shirt. Gerard scrambles to follow suit, pulling at the knot of his tie, fumbling wrong-handed with his vest buttons. Brian sitting up on him like this forces his weight down on Gerard's aching dick and he can barely hold a thought long enough to undress.

Brian's shirt comes off first, showing all the skin Gerard's seen and a whole lot he hasn't, peppered with dark hairs, sharp lines of tattoos stretched over taut muscle. Gerard's hands abandon their undressing duties to slide up over all that skin, tracing lines of muscle and ink. Fuck, so hot, so firm, so much to touch and taste. He leans up, running his mouth across Brian's chest, his skin salty and warm under Gerard's tongue. This pulls a groan from Brian; he grabs Gerard's head, fingers tight in his hair, chest shifting under his mouth as he pants sharply.

Gerard can't help biting lightly at all that skin under his mouth, his hands falling lower to dance along the thick leather of Brian's belt. There isn't even a question in his mind as he wiggles a finger between leather and metal to pull the belt loose. Button and zipper give easily and Gerard's dipping a hand inside, finding Brian warm and leaking. The fingers in his hair tighten to the point of pain as Brian drags his head up, meeting his mouth hard and demanding.

The mattress presses up behind Gerard as Brian lowers him onto it. He firms his grip around Brian's cock, earning a choked gasp and bitten lip as Brian's body crushes down on his.

Fuck, he could white-out just from this, all the heat and hardness under his hand, Brian's mouth on his, breath on his cheek. Brian slides a hand down to cover Gerard's aching crotch and he bucks up to meet it. Even through layers of clothing the touch is too much, and he knows he's leaking precome inside his underwear.

Desperate for skin on skin contact he drags his free hand to fumble with his belt, Brian's pressure on his dick easing as he scrabbles to get Gerard's pants undone. The moment Brian gets a hand inside and closes it around his naked cock, Gerard melts back into the bed, a keening noise spilling from his lips. Brian kisses it away, covering Gerard's mouth and it's only through sheer force of will that Gerard manages to keep his hand moving on Brian's dick the whole time.

It's white-hot, but it's not enough. He wants more than just Brian's hand, more than just his mouth. He wants to taste every part, have Brian come apart in his arms.

Gerard rolls their bodies over, putting Brian on his back. Brian doesn't fight when Gerard breaks the kiss, sliding down his body, hands stroking down Brian's torso, lips brushing over his chest and down his belly. The smell of Brian's arousal is thick in his nose as his mouth reaches where his hand is fisted around Brian’s cock, hot and damp. He spares a glance up at Brian through his hair, getting an eyeful of the heat and naked want on his face before he ducks his head to swallow his cock.

The noise Brian makes is animal and immediately he's gripping Gerard's head, hair pinched between his fingers and tugging hard. Gerard slides his tongue down Brian's warm length, filling his mouth with heat and salty-slick skin. It's been a long while since he's done this, but practiced habit guides his motions. Brian's hips shift beneath his hands, restless movements, his breath hitching. Gerard concentrates on keeping his head moving, feeling the throb of Brian's arousal under his tongue.

"Gerard." His name from Brian's lips is ragged, pushed out on harsh breath. Brian's tugging his head up, fingers anchored firmly in his hair. Gerard looks at him questioningly, mouth feeling loose, wet and way too empty. "Come here." Two simple words, spoken so softly, and they're sending fire through him. He's nearly shaking with want when he crawls up over Brian; every piece of clothing still attached to his body feels stuck down with sweat and too fucking hot.

Brian kisses him hard, like a promise, melting their bodies together. He gets a handful of Gerard's naked ass, pulling him down so their cocks are flush and it makes Gerard wriggle and rub down on him.

Brian breaks the kiss, breath feathering over Gerard's face, hands gentle as he brushes Gerard's hair back from his eyes. "I'd like to fuck you." Gerard's breath rushes out of him at the words. Brian's hand on his ass slides lower, fingers gently teasing between his cheeks. Gerard writhes, pressing into the touch, already nodding his assent.

Brian’s fingers dip lower, stroking around his opening, making Gerard’s breath hitch and whine.

"I’ve got... stuff..." he stammers, struggling to find words around all the moans his voice wants to make. "In the drawer," he finishes on a hiss as Brian palms his ass, grinding up on him in a way that makes their cocks slide and steals his breath.

"Fuck, Gee." Brian looks hazy, brow pinched in concentration. "Get fucking undressed already." He flicks the end of the tie Gerard’s still wearing; Gerard’s got almost all his clothes still on and they’re suffocating him.

Brian rolls him onto his back, sliding across the bed to scrabble in the drawer, finding lube and condoms Gerard hopes aren’t out of date.

Undressing is hard; his tie is too complicated and buttons, fuck, so many buttons. He forces his fingers to work until he’s peeling every last piece of fabric from his body, unable to tear his gaze from Brian’s naked back and ass as he shoves off his own jeans and shoes.

Finally, gloriously naked, Brian’s body covers his and every inch of his skin is singing with pleasure at the full body contact. Brian’s hands stroke down his arms from shoulder to wrist, tangling their fingers together above Gerard’s head and kissing him. Gerard can’t help pressing up off the bed, searching for more contact, more skin, more tongue. It’s delicious but maddening and he just wants to get fucked already.

"Please, fuck, Brian. Please." It’s almost unconscious the way the words leak out, but they do the trick. Brian rolls him onto his stomach, stroking firm hands down his back to his ass, making him shiver and push his dick into the mattress. The snap of the lube bottle has him peering back over his shoulder, getting an eyeful of Brian coating his fingers, and the casual but purposeful way he does it makes Gerard’s cock pulse.

Brian leans over him, breath hot on the back of his neck as warm, slick fingers stroke at his ass. The noise Gerard lets out is needy and embarrassing, pulling a soft chuckle from Brian that he can feel on his shoulder blade.

"You ready for this?" Brian murmurs, tip of a finger pressing gently at his opening. Gerard nods into the mattress, pushing his ass up into the touch, not asking, begging.

Brian’s finger slides in and immediately it’s not enough; Gerard pushes back into Brian’s hand, rubbing himself down into the bed, trying to get some friction on his cock.

"More. Fuck. More," he mutters, not even caring how desperate he sounds. Brian presses a kiss behind his ear, licking the sensitive hollow in a way that makes Gerard tilt his head into it.

Another finger joins the first and Gerard starts to writhe, pressing his ass up off the bed until he’s on his knees, pushing back, wanting more.

"Jesus, Gee." There's a smile in Brian's voice, but underneath that there's something panting and growling for more. Gerard can feel the hot press of Brian's hard-on against his hip and he knows he's not the only one barely hanging on.

A third finger joins the first two and it's almost starting to feel like enough, wringing a pathetic throaty cry from Gerard as he twitches back into it. He can't help it, he has to reach down and grab his cock, hold tight, feel it pulse under his fingers. Fuck, he's on a razor's edge already, it's been so long, he's so out of his mind.

"Fuck, Brian, please. Please..." he begs, one hand clenched in the sheets, the other around his dick, rubbing his forehead into the mattress and trying not to drool. Everything's on fire; every atom of his skin is alive with it.

"What, Gerard?" Brian's voice is pure sex in his ear. His fingers twist, making Gerard's hips buck. "Please, what?"

"Fuck me, God, please fuck me." The words are out of his mouth without a thought, strangled and crushed into the mattress. He should be mortified, but it doesn't register, he just _needs_ more of everything.

Brian's fingers withdraw, making Gerard moan at the loss. He rolls onto his back to watch Brian struggle a condom packet open, holding his dick tight at the base and breathing deep before he stops to roll it on. And Gerard can't quite fathom that this is real. Brian's naked on his bed with a fucking hard-on and its real, and he's about to get fucked through the mattress.

There're few things in the world hotter than the sight of Brian stroking lube over his sheathed dick, eyes slitted, biting down on his lip like he can't help himself.

Gerard's still committing that image to memory, hands fisted in the sheets when Brian moves again, covering Gerard's body with his own, finding his mouth, and it feels like way too long since they last kissed. Warm skin dusted with hair presses against him and Gerard pulls Brian down, pushing closer, needing them fused. Brian kisses him long and deep and searching, one hand stroking up Gerard's ass to the back of his knee, guiding him open.

A needy noise leaks out of Gerard's mouth as he breaks the kiss, panting into Brian's ear as he feels the first gentle press of Brian's cock against his ass.

"Yes. Ahhh," is all he can manage as Brian slowly presses in and _fuck_ it's been a while. There's resistance but it's only an edge of pain, and Gerard can take it. He nods into Brian's neck, grabbing his ass and pulling forwards, every movement encouraging, begging _more_.

Brian gives it to him, pushing in to the hilt and just staying there, eyes hot on Gerard's face, watching carefully. It feels like he's looking right _inside_ him and all Gerard can do is breathe, hitch his hips up and catalyze the movement he's desperate for. Brian takes the cue, starts sliding in and out so slow it's like being unraveled, unpicked. Gerard arches into him, shoving back against each thrust with his hips, groaning.

Brian's still watching him, eyes looking deep and it's too much, too intimate, like having his soul splayed out. Gerard pulls him down for a kiss because it gives him a reason to close his eyes. Switching off sight just turns touch up to eleven, pushing the intensity until he's moaning into their joined mouths. Brian's hand finds him, stroking his cock and Gerard's brain expires, giving him up to sensation alone. He slides a hand up Brian's sweat-slicked back, resting on the wet curls at his nape, hips moving with every thrust, feeling like his cock's going to blow any second.

Brian moves too slowly, like he knows Gerard’s on a knife edge and he wants to make him work for it. Gerard pushes into the kiss, showing with lips and tongue and teeth how much he wants this. All he can feel is Brian’s mouth, his body, his cock, oh fuck his _cock_ , pushing in and out, filling him up and emptying him out over and over.

When Brian speeds his strokes on Gerard’s dick he has to break the kiss and gasp, panting need into Brian’s neck as he feels his cock sliding home again and again.

"Brian, fuck. Brian... _fuck_." He’s babbling and he knows it, but it’s good, excellent even, because it seems to unlock Brian’s movements, making him push Gerard’s legs back further than he thought his body could bend, quickening his thrusts and suddenly _there_ , fuck he’s hitting Gerard inside right where he needs it and Jesus, Zeus and Allah or who fucking-ever _thank you_ , holy _fuck_.

Brian cackles breathlessly in his ear and Gerard realizes that’s his out-loud voice he’s using. But who fucking cares? The grip Brian’s got on his dick tightens and quickens, and suddenly his orgasm is screaming toward him at light speed.

"Brian, _fuck_ , Brian. I’m gonna-" he pants, only succeeding in making Brian move faster, his grip on Gerard’s dick firming more and he adds a twist that brushes over his cockhead with every stroke. Fuck, fuck _fuck_ that’s it. Gerard grabs two handfuls of Brian’s hair, stares straight at him, straight _into_ him as his loses it, orgasm crashing over him as his cock pulses and releases in Brian’s firm grip.

"Jesus, fuck. _Fuck_ , Gerard." Brian pushes the words out breathlessly and Gerard pants in lieu of reply, a million years from being able to get enough air in his lungs, aftershocks rattling through him. Brian keeps thrusting, faster, harder. All Gerard can do is stare up at him, fixating on the pink spot on Brian’s lip where he’s biting down on it, the way his eyes are so dilated they look almost black.

Gerard’s still boneless from his orgasm, easily taking everything Brian’s got, his body zinging fuzzily every time Brian bottoms out. He can tell Brian’s getting close, the way his moans pitch up and lengthen. He drags his head down, crushing their mouths and swallowing the noises, feeling Brian bucking harder and more erratic into him. He welcomes it, wanting the rest, wanting to feel Brian come apart inside him.

He does, groaning into Gerard’s mouth, hips going elastic before shuddering staccato against him and that’s it. Gerard can feel Brian pulse and release inside him, the groan of completion against his lips that goes with it.

Brian’s head drops into the hollow of Gerard’s neck, breathing hot on his throat as he struggles to catch his breath. Gerard slides his fingers into Brian’s damp hair, pulling him up for a kiss, long and slow. Brian growls low and satisfied into his throat as their lips separate, looking flushed and shiny with sweat. Gerard’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything better.

Gentle fingers push Gerard’s sweated-up hair back from his face and he arches into it like a cat, curling to the touch. He echoes the motion on Brian, brushing back that distracting _boyish_ lock of hair from Brian’s forehead.

It’s hard to separate completely; hard but necessary. Brian keeps it quick, pulling out gently and discarding the condom. He hands Gerard a pile of Kleenex to wipe up with.

Warm, sated and mostly clean, Gerard lets Brian roll him onto his side, happy to be the little spoon as Brian’s body curls around him.

Sleep finds him quickly.

***

"Where the fuck is Gerard?" Pete poses the perfectly reasonable question to Mikey, who just so happens to be engaged in some pretty involved cross-departmental kissing with Alicia at the time, but _whatever_.

Mikey tears his face from Alicia’s way too slowly, and only after Pete’s poked him in the arm long enough that his finger is starting to protest.

"What?" Mikey demands, in a voice that can only be described as rude, coming from kissed-up lips.

"Your brother. Our esteemed director. Where is he?" Pete asks again, ignoring the daggers Alicia is glaring at him as she refuses to loosen the grip of her arms wrapped around Mikey’s bony shoulders.

"I don’t know. What the fuck? Go away!" Mikey shoves his ‘talk to the hand’ hand in Pete’s face in a severe show of hierarchical indifference. Pete is not taking this, no way.

"Dude, it’s your job to know where your director is. Your _job_ ," Pete presses; this is really basic stuff here.

"Hello Pete? Wrap party? Not on the clock right now. Go away." Mikey shakes his head, completely without regard for just how important this is. He turns back to Alicia, moving in to start up the tongue hockey again, but Pete grabs a handful of Mikey’s greasy hair and pulls him up inches short of Alicia’s mouth.

Alicia groans loudly and glares at Pete again, but she totally caves. "Gerard and Brian had a _moment_ earlier. They are probably off together somewhere."

"A moment? What kind of moment? Like, a _just rig the fucking car_ kind of moment?" Pete asks, words rushing out. Shit, this is _important_.

"No. More like the moment _we_ ," she waves a hand between herself and Mikey before continuing, "were having before _you,_ " she punctuates the word with a glare at Pete, "stuck your big head in the way. Okay?" She gives Pete a withering (and completely inappropriate) look that clearly screams ‘go away’ which puts Pete’s back right up, but at the same time he’s kind of impressed. And not just with Alicia.

"Fuck. Brian, hey? That explains a lot."

Alicia doesn’t bother answering, just gives Pete a final glare and recommences sucking face with Mikey. Pete lets them be, because he’s nice like that and it _is_ the wrap party after all. Plus he’s got plenty to mull over now.

He wanders back into the venue, nodding to the waiter who tops up his glass, and he sips the Jacob’s Creek Sparkling absently as he rolls that one around in his head. It’s a slippery little fucker and it probably doesn’t help that this is his umpteenth glass of celebratory sparkling, which is taking the edge off his usual sharpness. Patrick falls in beside him, absently clinking his glass to Pete's, and Pete forgets momentarily that Patrick represents LA and the studio and all things evil and runs it past him. Because Patrick has amazing insights sometimes.

"So do you think I should be worried? About the director and the stunt coordinator maybe, possibly having a showmance?" Pete directs the question into his glass of bubbles and Patrick doesn’t even flinch. Of course, Patrick must have already known. He’s so good at picking up on things. It’s why Pete has trouble hating him.

"If you decide you should be worried, is there anything you could do about the situation anyway?" Patrick asks, face considering but open, and Pete’s got to admit the kid’s got a point.

"You’ve got a point, kid."

"Don’t call me kid."

"Sorry." Pete shoots Patrick an apologetic look and Patrick’s expression softens a little. He’s looking a lot less executive-fail-chic tonight in dress pants and a shirt that is free from any kind of pattern. His hat of choice is a fedora, which Pete likes on him a lot, but it really needs to be set at a more jaunty angle.

"Man, wrap parties hey?" Pete scans the room as they wander through it, looking at all the revelers, lost in their celebration like this is really the end, like it's all done and there isn’t months of post and finishing left. He spots Ryan and Bob, talking close in a far corner; over towards the doorway he catches a glimpse of Frank twirling Jamia madly around the dance floor. With Mikey and Alicia outside, and Brian and Gerard who the fuck knows where, there’s a lot going on tonight.

"What about wrap parties?" Patrick asks, reminding Pete he’s only releasing half his thoughts verbally. "I haven’t been to that many."

*Oh right. Just... the hookups. It’s so fucking sex-charged in here tonight, we should be giving out condoms at the door."

Patrick giggles and Pete’s got to stop a minute and admire it. He’s really gorgeous when he lets himself smile. With the champagne flowing tonight Patrick’s being a bit free and easy with the smiles and Pete likes that. A lot. He gives in to the urge he’s been fighting all night, and reaches up to Patrick’s hat, tilting it to an angle with more character and smiling at the result. Much better.

"It’s not fair, really. Everyone else is gonna run amok tonight and I’ll be going home alone." Pete rounds a doorway, leading them into a quieter corner of the bar, aside from the trill of poker machines.

"Oh, your life. So hard," Patrick teases and Pete just shakes his head, fighting a messy laugh. "I’m sure you could pick up if you wanted to." Patrick’s voice is encouraging and Pete’s surprised to find that he _isn’t_ surprised by the way his heart does a skip at that. Of course, the bonus of being delightfully tipsy is that he doesn’t have to pretend that he hasn’t developed a major crush on the executive. This slightly tipsy version of Pete is surprisingly okay with it, and happy to ignore all the studio-oriented reasons why he shouldn’t be.

"You think I could pick up?" Pete’s fishing for compliments now and he knows it.

"You won't know if you don’t try." Patrick’s ever-present logic seems to have withstood his alcohol consumption. But still, Pete knows it’s more than that.

"It’s not just about _try_ and _can_. It’s about should and shouldn’t," he explains, even though he’s sure it isn’t necessary. Patrick knows enough about stuff to know that the producer shouldn’t go around hitting on random crew at wrap party. All sorts of dramas come from that kind of shit.

"Inappropriate behavior," Patrick states and Pete can only jump right in.

"See? I knew you’d know. You’re really good at this shit, Trick." Pete’s words pull a smile from Patrick and Pete gets a bit stuck staring at him. He reaches up and adjusts Patrick’s hat again, really just for a reason to touch him, pushing at a loose lock of hair that’s falling across his forehead. Patrick takes the contact well, doesn’t flinch away or tell Pete to stop and Pete can’t help taking that as an invitation to keep going. He lets his fingers trail down Patrick’s cheek, gently stroking down his strawberry-blonde sideburns, knowing he’s pushing it and expecting to be pulled up on it. He isn’t.

Patrick doesn’t call him out; quite the opposite. Those big eyes of his flutter closed and he presses his face into Pete’s hand. Pete’s heartbeat shoots up, blood racing down his arm and through every one of his fingers. Fuck. Now what does he do?

Patrick’s eyes flutter open before Pete has a chance to formulate a plan. He looks hard at Pete, eyes peering right into him. "You know, I’m pretty drunk," Patrick admits, voice level and not slurring even slightly.

"Yeah, I’m pretty drunk. too," Pete chimes in, even though tipsy would be a better word than drunk for him right now.

"You know, I think I’m so drunk that if something happened right now, I probably wouldn’t remember it tomorrow." Patrick’s breath doesn’t even smell like alcohol, Pete can tell because it’s feathering over his face right now, their noses mere inches apart.

"I probably wouldn’t remember it either. I tend to black out a lot."

"Hmm. Yeah. So I guess... if something happened, but I don’t remember it and you don’t remember it. It would be almost like it didn’t happen." Patrick smiles at Pete, soft and secretive. Pete was absolutely right about Patrick’s logic. The guy is making perfect sense.

"Yeah, well if no one remembers it... it’s like the tree falling in the woods thing, right?" Pete poses.

"Yeah. Exactly. Just like the tree thing." Patrick nods, a smile twitching his mouth up and Pete’s heart is beating in his ears. He casts a glance over his shoulder, scanning around the room but there’s no one to see. They’re the only ones in this tiny corner of the bar, surrounded by shrieking poker machines.

So there’s no one around to see when Pete leans in and presses his mouth gently to Patrick’s, feeling first-hand just how soft his lips are. Patrick makes a small noise and presses closer, deepening the kiss, tongue pressing gently at Pete’s lips, encouraging them open and gaining entrance. Pete takes his tongue happily, adding his own to the mix, taking a tiny step closer so their bodies meet and he can really get into it.

Patrick is a great kisser. He’s even better at kissing than he is at budgeting, and Patrick is a total fucking _star_ at that. Pete grabs a handful of the executive’s shirt while the other reaches down to grab his waist and yeah, okay, this is really happening. He’s not going to think about all the reasons why it shouldn’t be happening because it’s not _really_ happening, it’s a silent tree falling in a silent wood, with no one around to hear it.

That’s as much thought as he’s gonna give this. For now he pulls Patrick closer, kisses him harder and lets himself think of a different type of wood.

The plan works perfectly, except for the complete lack of an appropriate location. Patrick's mouth is a thing of wonder and Pete is happily drowning in it until the maniacal tinkling of the poker machines is broken by a thud and a giggle that doesn't come from Pete or Patrick.

Patrick seems to have retained more brain power than Pete as he breaks the kiss first, stepping sideways in a way that is really quite subtle. Pete grasps at what's left of his mind and turns to focus on the intrusion, which come in the form of Bob and Ryan, who seem to have had a run in with Cleopatra's Cash Bonanza. This isn't surprising, given neither of them look like they're paying attention to where they're heading, they're too busy necking.

The upside is they don't seem to have noticed Patrick and Pete are even there, so it's highly unlikely they heard the tree falling in the forest.

Pete opens his mouth to say something, but Patrick shakes his head, snagging him by the wrist and dragging him out of the room by a different exit, then out of the venue. Pete can barely contain his laughter until they get outside, his bark echoing around the parking lot. He has to hold on to Patrick's shoulder to steady himself.

Patrick's not laughing but it's there in his eyes as he smirks widely at Pete. It looks so good on him Pete's breath catches, choking off his laughter. He scrubs a hand over his face, struggling to find calm, but all he comes up with is an intense urge to kiss Patrick again. Patrick's talent for reading people is obviously still working, because all he has to do is incline his head and Pete's following him out of the parking lot.

"Where are we going?" It's not a protest, Pete just likes to plan ahead.

"Come on, it's just across the road." Patrick doesn't even slow down, so Pete lengthens his stride to catch up with him.

Patrick leads him down a pathway framed by wooden rails, the ground softening further and further beneath his feet until his shoes are sinking into soft white sand, sound of the ocean crashing loud in his ears. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, Pete can see the moonlight reflecting on the water, and it's so peaceful he can almost forgive all the Gold Coast's other flaws. Almost.

Patrick kicks off his loafers and Pete follows suit, slipping out of his shoes, too. The sand slides between his toes, cool and grainy. He knots his shoelaces and kicks through the sand, grabbing Patrick by the hand and dragging him down the beach to the water's edge. The sand is wet and sloppy under his feet when he takes Patrick's face in his hands and kisses him, not even pretending to be drunk anymore.

Patrick kisses back eagerly, his hands sliding down Pete's back to rest gently just above his belt, fingers burning points of heat through Pete's shirt. A noise escapes Pete's mouth as he leans closer, deepening the kiss, pressing a hand up Patrick's neck looking to sink into his hair but encountering his hat first. He spears the brim between his fingers and tips it off, leaning out of the kiss to check out what Patrick looks like without it.

"Hey, come on - not fair." Patrick reaches for the hat but Pete holds it at arm's length, brushing back freshly revealed strawberry blonde hair with his other hand. Patrick looks impossibly young without the hat and somehow it just makes Pete want him more.

"What? I like it. Why you gotta cover your head all the time?" Pete slides in closer to Patrick, leaving his arms loosely resting around his shoulders. "You take it off to shower, right?"

"Pete." Patrick drops his voice low, a note of warning in it. "Don't push it."

Pete just flashes his winning smile, tossing the hat over his shoulder so it lands on the dry sand before curving his arm to pull Patrick back in, kissing the frown off his face. Patrick rolls his eyes at him but Pete can feel the smile twitching under his lips as he crushes their mouths together again.

They kiss messily and Pete flashes back to high school days of outdoor makeouts in parks when you have nowhere else to go. Apparently he's regressing. He doesn't even care.

Patrick eases him backwards and Pete lets himself be guided, backing up until the sand under his feet is soft and dry, before letting his knees give way and Patrick follows him down to the ground. Patrick presses him backwards until his back hits the sand and Pete looks up at him, one hand pressed over the throbbing pulse in Patrick's neck. Fuck, this is such a bad idea, but he can't even bring himself to care. He just slides a hand around Patrick's waist and drags him down on top of him.

Patrick finds his mouth again, kissing him warm, wet and insistent; tongue pressing inside and Pete arches underneath him, sand trickling down the back of his shirt as their legs tangle together. The weight of Patrick's body pressing down on his is exquisite but the layers of cloth separating them are maddening. God, it's like being back in high school, all kissing and touching over clothes in semi-public places. He really is regressing.

Pete's nearly got a handle on it; he's almost managed to scrape together enough brain cells to actually form words when Patrick's body slips down on his, pressing them flush and _jesus_ Patrick's enjoying this just as much as he is. Pete can't help grinding up on Patrick, locking his arms around him and pulling him down kissing him hard. Wanting to be closer, wanting to crawl inside him.

When Patrick's hand finds his belt, Pete's got no will to fight it. He fumbles for the button on Patrick's slacks and wonders what this is going to be. A fumbling handjob in the dark, or will he get Patrick's mouth? Oh lord, the thought of either has got him hard enough to burst a seam on his underwear. He arches up under Patrick as a warm hand finds its way into his briefs and fuck, Patrick's fingers closing around him is a slice of heaven he doesn't deserve.

Patrick's above him, filling his whole field of vision and Pete can't think of anything he'd rather look at. His head drifts closer to Pete's, voice low and growly as he mutters at him, "You like that?"

All Pete can do is make a strangled noise and buck against his hand. Patrick grips him firmly, a sly smile pulling his lips up as he starts to stroke and fuck if Pete isn't unraveling already. He's not going to last, not with Patrick's hand moving and his eyes all hot and his mouth...

Pete groans and arches up off the sand to lock his mouth to Patrick's and fuck, bliss, every nerve-ending in his body fires with it. He flaps his hands desperately at Patrick's pants, somehow finding enough dexterity to get his fly open and a hand inside, swallowing Patrick's choked moan when his fingers find his cock. Patrick melts down onto him when he finds his grip, tongue pressing into Pete's mouth insistently. It's like Pete flipped a switch; suddenly Patrick is all over him, mouth devouring, hand moving on Pete's dick faster, firmer, perfect.

 _Oh shit_. A groan chokes out of Pete and he has to reach down with his free hand, shoving between their bodies to grab Patrick's wrist, stilling the sublime movement. Not yet, not yet... Patrick breaks the kiss, looking down at Pete with a question on his face, but Pete can't form words to explain so he just shakes his head at him, flipping Patrick onto his back so suddenly it makes him bark out a surprised laugh.

"What, is this funny?" Pete teases, no malice in the words. "Am I funny, Trick?" He burrows his head under Patick's shirt, licking up his chest as his hands find a grip on Patrick's pants, yanking downwards. Patrick makes a noise that Pete can't translate beyond _keep going_ so he does, pressing his face into Patrick's crotch, wiry curls tickling his nose as he breathes in deeply the scent of sex.

He tilts his head to press his lips to the base of Patrick's cock and he bucks up under Pete's hands, trembling and making a wonderful breathy noise that Pete wants to record and play back over and over. He licks Patrick's dick from bottom to top, before wrapping his lips around the head and pushing down, so slowly, until he can feel the press at the back of his throat.

Patrick stays perfectly still beneath him, aside from the tremors of him shaking and the delicate touch of his hands dancing along Pete's nape. It's all the encouragement Pete needs to start moving, stroking up and down Patrick's cock with his mouth, tasting salt and sex.

"Fuck, Pete, oh fuck, your _mouth_." If Pete didn't have his mouth full, he'd tell Patrick a few things about his own mouth and just how much it's been on his mind the last ten weeks. But he doesn't have the ability to speak right now; he's too busy breathing through his nose and sucking and swirling his tongue in a way that makes Patrick's hips buck up abortively, like its taking everything he's got not to just fuck Pete's mouth.

All this self control is a little hard on Pete's ego, so the next time Patrick arches, Pete tightens his fingers on his hips and pulls up, guiding the motion, encouraging more. Patrick gasps as his dick hits the back of Pete's throat and fuck, it makes Pete's eyes water and his cock pulse. He wants _more_.

He can't ask verbally, so he just keeps pulling with his hands, telling Patrick _more, harder, let go_ and fuck, Patrick absolutely does. His fingers tighten in Pete's hair, guiding his head and his hips start bouncing up and down, thrusting between Pete's lips and it's everything Pete needs. He's on fire; his mouth feels full and used and his untouched cock feels like it could burst, he's so turned on.

A moan rumbles up his throat and over Patrick's dick, making Patrick howl so Pete does it again, bouncing his head faster until Patrick's grip on his hair is nearly painful.

"Pete. Shit. Pete... I'm gonna, I'm gonna-" Patrick chokes the words out, trying to pry Pete off his dick but Pete's having none of it; he sucks harder, twisting his head and flicking his tongue over the tip. Patrick arches up off the sand, taking Pete with him as his cock pulses in Pete's mouth. He comes with a shout and Pete swallows it all, fingers digging into the soft flesh or Patrick's hips, forehead pressed hard into his belly.

He's damp with sweat when Patrick drags him up, arranging Pete's body over his, all trembling and twitchy and ready to pop. Fuck, he's barely been touched but he's hard as a rock, taste of semen in his mouth, lips raw and aching. When Patrick locks their mouths, tongue pressing inside to stroke his and taste himself, Pete's already trembling. The first touch of Patrick's fingers to his dick has his hips twitching down, searching for more.

Patrick strokes his tongue over Pete's as his hand finds a grip and starts to move. Pete's sliding all over him already, shaking and rubbing and rolling; he can't keep still. He feels high as a kite and Patrick's hand is the only thing keeping him from floating off. He's not going to last. He groans into Patrick's mouth and is so thankful when Patrick doesn't tease. He strokes Pete firmly, fingers rubbing over the head on each pull and Pete bucks against him already. Oh fuck, it's coming, so hard and so fast it's embarrassing but he gives himself up to it, biting down on Patrick's lip as it catches up to him three strokes later.

It's like he's emptying himself out; his whole body spasms as he shoots all over Patrick's belly, sweaty forehead pressed to his, every atom singing with it. Fuck, it's like dying and being reborn all over again. He flops down onto Patrick, whole body gone to liquid, his head buzzing on a feedback loop.

"Jesus," Hhe pants, reaching down to find Patrick's hand, sticky and sweaty, and pull it up to his mouth. He kisses the palm gently, tasting himself, "Fuck, amazing. That was so amazing."

"Are you talking to me or to the hand?" Patrick poses the question with an arch of his brow. Pete glances up at him, mouth still pressed to his palm when he answers, "Both."

"Oh. All right then."

"Seriously, you should get your hands minted." Pete leans up over Patrick, brushing their noses. "You have seriously fucking amazing hands." He closes the last inch between them and kisses Patrick long and deep, breaking to continue in a breathless whisper, "And mouth. Fuck, your mouth," before dropping back down to kiss him some more.

Patrick's hands stroke up from his ass, over his back, to sit on his neck, warm and heavy. Pete rubs down on Patrick as they kiss, feeling like he's falling into him, like their bodies are fusing in some way, and not just from the sweat and come.

When Patrick finally breaks the kiss, Pete snuggles into him, tucking his head into Patrick's neck and clinging on.

"Fuck," he breathes in wonderment, not able to make real words yet. Patrick just brushes gentle fingers through his hair, settling him with the calming touch.

If Pete could speak, he'd probably say something about inventing giant soundproofing devices for forests. Because fuck those noisy falling trees, he's doing this again. As many times as Patrick will let him.

***

Gerard forgot to close the curtains last night, so he wakes way too early to a room bathed in sunshine. He's ready to groan and push his face into the pillow but the sight of Brian lying beside him catches the noise before it's made. Brian's still asleep, face slack and relaxed in the golden glow of morning and he looks beautiful, skin warm and brown, eyelashes dark and fine.

Gerard props his head up, leaning on his elbow and looking his fill. The sheet lies diagonally across Brian's chest and before Gerard realizes what he's doing, he's tracing the lines of Brian's tattoos with a gentle finger, fascinated by the shapes, the way the designs bend and stretch over bone and muscle.

Brian stirs and Gerard's hand stills, too late. He knows he's wearing a guilty expression when Brian's eyes flutter open to find his face.

"Morning," he says, not even bothering to move.

"Mmmph." Brian's response is non-verbal at first, which Gerard can understand; it's certainly unusual for him to be this perky first thing in the morning. Brian's gaze traces down Gerard's bent arm and back up again. "Were you-"

"Watching you sleep? Only for a little while."

"That's creepy, Gerard."

"I am kind of creepy."

"I know. That's okay." Brian rolls into him, pressing his face into Gerard's neck. Under the sheets, Gerard can feel that he's hard, his morning wood brushing Gerard's hip. He has to swallow a little gasp.

Brian mouths at his neck, one hand trailing across Gerard's chest and he's really loving this floppy early-morning version of Brian.

"I should take you out to breakfast," Gerard mutters, squirming under Brian's hands.

Brian's fingers slide lower, curling around Gerard's own morning erection, warm and firm.

"Blow jobs first. Then breakfast."

Gerard can't argue with that.

***

Pete wakes up on Saturday with sand all over his body. It's in his hair, itching behind his neck, stuck under his arms and behind his knees. It should make him feel dirty and gross, but it just reminds him of Patrick. It's proof that he didn't just dream up their tussle in the sand, it really happened and Pete's attaching way too much meaning to it.

He wasn't able to convince Patrick to come with him to his apartment. He tried, so hard, and they were stuck together like glue on the corner of Tedder and Hughes for at least half an hour, Pete kissing Patrick breathless and Patrick shaking his head, tugging his arm from Pete's hand and trying to walk away.

Pete made his best argument. All his best arguments, but to no avail. Patrick was insistent and Pete ended up sleeping alone, cold sheets at his side, grit of sand under his fingernails.

It isn't a smart move to go searching for Patrick, but Pete's never been one to shy away from bad ideas. Showered and dressed, but not fed or coffee'd, he buzzes Patrick's apartment with no idea what he wants to say. He throws a half dozen excuses at the intercom, all work related and he can hear the reluctance in Patrick's voice when he buzzes him up.

Patrick's apartment is on the twentieth floor. It has an ocean view. This might have meant something to Pete two nights ago but now he doesn't care. The moment Patrick opens his door Pete grabs him around the neck, kissing him before the door even closes behind him and, against all odds and logic, Patrick kisses him back. They melt into each other, stroking tongues and rubbing lips for long moments before Patrick breaks it, panting.

"This is a bad idea."

"But it's such a fucking good one, too," Pete argues, fingers still locked in Patrick's hair, his hat long gone. Pete tries to kiss him again, but Patrick turns his head, holding fast to his self control so Pete aims for his neck instead, sucking at the hollow behind his ear, making Patrick's body curve insistently towards him.

"Fuck Pete, if we do this now we can't write it off. This is like, on purpose." Patrick's barely getting the words out and Pete can feel the thumping pulse under his lips.

"Don't you want to do it on purpose?" he growls into Patrick's neck, stroking his tongue up under his chin. He presses Patrick back against the door, fumbling at his belt and Patrick reaches for his hands, trying to snare his wrists.

"Fuck, Pete, you know how dangerous this is," he chokes out, fingers tight around Pete's wrists but Pete pushes on, flicking the button on Patrick's slacks. If he can just get Patrick's dick in his mouth he can convince him. He'll let him do it then. God, he wants it so much.

"Pete-"

"Shhhh." Pete's breath hisses over Patrick's lips, their mouths a breath apart until Pete presses them together, taking Patrick's mouth the same moment he slides his hand into his pants. Patrick groans into the kiss, melting against the door and into Pete as he finds his grip.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Pete whispers into his mouth, trying to sound enticing as he starts to stroke. Patrick shakes his head, brow furrowed, mouth tight with denial.

"Yes it does. There's no point doing it if it's meaningless," he grits out, unable to keep his hips from shifting in response to Pete's movements.

Pete pulls his hand from Patrick's hair, gentle fingers sliding down to cup his cheek and Patrick leans into it. With his hat off and his hair falling all over his forehead he looks painfully young, and Pete just wants him more.

"It doesn't have to mean _everything_ ," Pete insists, fingers dancing over Patrick's cheekbone and he sees the moment when it becomes clear, when the heat wins over the hesitation in Patrick's eyes.

He crushes his mouth over Pete's, hard and demanding and Pete folds into it, moaning and handing over the reins. When Patrick breaks the kiss his breath is harsh, thumb stroking over Pete's wet bottom lip.

"We do this, we do it my way," he states, voice strong, and it's the same tone he uses when he's talking no-bullshit-budget stuff, but it's way hotter. Pete presses into him eagerly, rubbing up against him and nodding.

"Your way, sure. Yeah," he agrees, already starved for more contact, wanting Patrick's mouth again.

"Pete." Patrick's hand is strong on Pete's jaw, his thumb resting right under Pete's eye and he turns his head so Pete has no choice but to look him straight in the eye. "My way. Means. I'm going to fuck you."

All the strength melts out of Pete's legs at those words. It's easily the hottest moment in his life so far. Patrick's voice is a promise that Pete's body is already delivering on and fuck he's so hard, so ready, and they're still crushed up against Patrick's front door.

"Bedroom. Now." Patrick's soft voice carries more authority than Joe with a megaphone and Pete takes the instruction, tearing at his shirt buttons as he stumbles to the door he hopes is the bedroom.

He gets his shirt off but his pants are trickier because he forgets he's wearing shoes. He falls back to sit on the bed, tussling with his shoes and jeans, hard-on insistently pushing against his belly. He loses track of what he's doing when he glances up at Patrick, who's pulled his shirt off over his head, leaving his hair messed up, but his eyes are hot and boiling green at Pete, robbing him of all motor function.

Luckily Patrick notices and takes the lead, approaching the bed and rolling Pete onto his stomach with no-nonsense hands. He shoves Pete's jeans and shoes off with his foot as he strokes firm hands down Pete's naked back, the movement pressing Pete's aching dick into the mattress, making him squirm for more contact.

Hot mouth and breath follow on Pete's neck, tracing down his spine and he shivers with goosebumps, groaning in a way that should be embarrassing, but it's just what he's feeling made verbal. Patrick's body covers his, denim clad legs rough against the backs of Pete's bare ones. Patrick shimmies down, hot mouth shifting to suck at Pete's shoulder blade, the small of his back, to bite gently at the soft globes of his ass.

All Pete can do is pant and twitch and push back into it. He wants to flip over, pull Patrick down onto him and touch him everywhere but he knows that's not the deal. That would be like the runner trying to talk over the director, so he just shuts up; the only sound allowed out of his mouth is a moan.

Warm breath on his ass is the only warning he gets before Patrick's pressing his cheeks apart and _fuck_ , right there, Patrick's mouth hot and wet, his tongue pressing against the opening and the noise Pete makes is somewhere between shock and desperation. His ass twitches up, looking for more contact but Patrick's fingers are tight on his hips, holding him in place.

"Pete." There's a note of command in his voice and it's pushing warm air onto the inside of Pete's thigh. Pete's barely able to concentrate on it, he's too busy trying to rub his cock against the bed. He hasn't felt this desperate since he was a horny teenager. "Pete, can you reach the drawer?" It's a simple question but it takes Pete way too long to unravel it from the keening want that's bellowing through his mind.

When he's able to string the words together and make sense of them he reaches for the bedside drawer, fingers trailing over books and reading glasses until he finds the tube and foil-wrapped packages he knows he's looking for. He presses them into Patrick's grasp with shaking hands, gaining a hard kiss in thanks that melts him boneless into the mattress.

Patrick's hands find his ass again, wet and slick, making Pete groan and push back into the touch.

"You ready for me, Pete?" Patrick's body stretches over Pete's again, bare chest against his back and fuck yes, Pete is fucking ready. He tells Patrick as much in desperate words, face pressed into the mattress and he can feel Patrick's smile against his neck in reply. Then Patrick's pressing a gentle finger into his ass and Pete's keening and pressing back into the touch, groaning and begging until he gets another one.

Two of Patrick's fingers inside him and fuck, it's been a while. Enough that he's feeling the stretch, not painful, just intense. He glances over his shoulder and gets stuck looking at Patrick's face. His cheeks are flushed pink, fine hairs around his forehead dark and wet with sweat, a look of absolute concentration on his features. He catches Pete's look, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a wicked smile as he adds a third finger.

Pete's whole body shudders in response, his eyes falling shut and robbing him of the pornography of Patrick's reaction. Fuck, three fingers and he's already so full. He's so ready. He struggles an arm behind him, searching for Patrick's cock. He fumbles his way blindly into Patrick's jeans and then _jesusfuck_ he's got a handful of cock warm and hard. He squeezes, drawing a gasp from Patrick that makes him smile until Patrick twists his fingers inside him, erasing his spine. He collapses forwards, catching himself on one elbow and just trying to breathe. His cock is throbbing insistently now, so hard, so ready and he hasn't even touched it yet.

He firms his grip on Patrick's dick, guiding it towards his ass with intent, the motion earning him a gasp stuttered into his shoulder. When Patrick's fingers leave his ass it's hard not to whine, to grab hold of Patrick's wrist and keep him there, but the rip of a foil packet opening is all the promise he needs to grit his teeth and wait.

He’s rewarded with the blunt press of Patrick’s cock at his ass, tearing a groan from his throat. He tries to push back, fill himself up, but Patrick’s gripping Pete’s hips so hard he’s going to leave finger marks and Pete’s just going to have to take it as it comes. Patrick gives it out slowly, sliding in incrementally until Pete wants to scream with frustration. When he finally gets all the way in it’s like a revelation, and Pete just has to close his eyes and _feel_ it right down to his toes.

He can sense every droplet of sweat standing out on his skin, the weight of his body suddenly too heavy for his arms to hold up and he’s shaking, trembling and so completely _full_. It’s so much, he’s over-stimulated and strung right out, but it’s still not enough. Patrick’s fingers remain tight on his hips but Pete pushes against the hold, pushes back against Patrick, starting the movement he’s so desperate for.

The noise Patrick makes is animal, his body falling forward to crush down on Pete’s, sweat-slick chest against his back, hot mouth finding his neck as his hips start to drive forward and back. It’s a mind-burningly slow movement that has Pete gasping into the mattress, fingers clenching reflexively around handfuls of bedding. Patrick’s breath is warm behind his ear; the sounds he makes as he moves are throaty and guttural and Pete simply can’t get enough.

"More. Fuck, please, faster." His voice is wrecked, broken and needy. Patrick doesn’t answer him with words, just grabs a handful of his hair, gripping tight enough to draw his head back. His mouths Pete’s neck wetly, adding an edge of teeth and Pete has to fight the urge to whine. He loses the battle immediately and starts to keen as Patrick’s hips rock forwards, pushing the breath right out of him.

It’s good, fuck, so good. Every motion presses him down into the bed, fabric of the bedspread rubbing on his cock, but it’s nowhere near enough contact. He grinds hard, down into the mattress, up against Patrick, his whole body squirming despite the tight grip Patrick’s got in his hair and on his hip.

The fingers in his hair tighten, Patrick’s teeth against his neck nip at him, catching enough flesh to flare up a blossom of pain and it only adds edge to his pleasure, the driving want racing through his bloodstream. He twitches his head sideways, pulling against Patrick’s grip, forcing the hard tug against his scalp and moaning when he gets it.

Patrick’s low chuckle is warm against his neck, raising goosebumps. He doesn’t loosen his grip though, if anything it tightens, pulling Pete’s head to the side and Patrick bites him again, harder this time. Pete groans loud, his hips stuttering backwards, pushing Patrick’s cock into his ass at the same time as he’s rewarded with a sharp flare of pain in his neck. He lets out a strangled cry, feeling like his cock might explode from the combination. Jesusfuck who knew?

"Like that, is it?" Patrick’s muttering hot into his neck, shoving his hips forward on the word ‘that’ and Pete’s got to press his mouth into the mattress to muffle his moan. Fuck, he wants more. He wants it so hard he can feel it all down and through him.

He shoves his hips backwards at Patrick, groaning "Harder" in a voice that doesn't sound like his own, it's too thick and needy.

"Jesus Pete." Patrick's voice is breathy, awed and slightly anxious.

"Please." Pete's begging now and he knows it. He twists his head around to see Patrick, show him how much he means it and the expression on Patrick's face is heart-stopping. He looks like he's burning up, cheeks red and blotchy, hair damp and mussed. It should be all kinds of unattractive, but the pieces put together just steal Pete's breath. It's his eyes, the way he's looking at Pete like he wants to devour him and fuck if that doesn't set Pete on fire.

Pete pitches towards Patrick, joining their mouths in a kiss that's messy and sideways. It's awkward, all teeth and tongue, and Pete's wet all around his mouth when they separate but it does the job. Patrick's fingers lock on Pete's hip once more, pulling him back to meet a hard thrust, shoving into him and Pete can only groan his appreciation, hips stammering backwards to meet Patrick's motions.

It's almost enough, fuck, almost. Patrick's hand shifts from Pete's hip to find his dick, squeezing hard at the same time his teeth find Pete's neck again and Pete makes a noise like he's dying, soul deep and throaty. He's barely able to keep himself up on a shaking elbow, reaching behind him to grip Patrick's hip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh, pulling forwards, begging.

Patrick keeps going, shoving in hard, then pulling out nearly all the way before pounding back in. His low throaty grunts on every thrust paint heat up the back of Pete's neck. He firms his grip on Pete's cock, stroking in time with his movements and Pete starts to unravel. It's like their bodies are melting together, sweat slick and pulsing, and Patrick drives into him, right through him.

"Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck,_ " Pete moans into the mattress on every bone-melting push, fingers still gripping Patrick's ass, feeling everything, wanting everything. Fuck, it's coming, he can feel it coiling deep in his belly and balls, rattling loose every time Patrick bottoms out. His ass feels raw and his neck's tingling with sharp pin-pricks all over the bitten areas of his neck. And his cock, _fuck_ , it's wet and leaking in Patrick's grip, pulsing and ready to blow.

"Fuck that's it. Yeah, come on," Patrick growls hot into his neck, "You gonna come? Come on. Come for me, Pete."

Pete could white-out from his voice alone, he's so fucking close.

Patrick must know, must read it in the way Pete's moaning and shaking, because his free hand finds Pete's nipple, twisting hard as he bites on his neck, hips scissoring forwards as he speeds his thrusts. The combination of sensation tips Pete over, shaking his orgasm free until it bubbles out of his mouth in a strangled groan. Pete jack-knifes forwards, body going stiff as it pulses hot and liquid from his cock, Patrick stroking it loose with deft fingers as he pounds into his ass.

Pete's arms collapse, aftershocks buzzing through him, riding it out. Patrick's grip on his hips is the only thing keeping his ass up, as Patrick chases his own release, hips stuttering forwards hard and fast into Pete who's so boneless he can take anything now.

Pete sends a lazy arm behind him, curling fingers around the back of Patrick's neck, into the damp hair. He's shaking on every thrust, bathing in the sound of Patrick's voice, every animal grunt he makes. He twists his head around, trying to see, getting a glimpse of Patrick's face, tight and agonized, his eyes creased closed.

"Come on," Pete groans, wanting to see it, wanting to watch Patrick come apart.

Patrick's eyes fly open at the words, locking on to Pete as his mouth falls open and his hips shudder forwards, faster, harder than Pete ever thought he could take. But he takes it, feels the pulse in his ass as Patrick shoots, gripping his hair. He savors the vision of Patrick's eyes fluttering, the way his face twists in ecstasy, the throaty strangled sound that comes out of his mouth as it happens.

All Patrick's weight collapses onto him and Pete lets it press him flat into the mattress, covered in Patrick, all sweaty and panting into his neck. He's aching and tingling in so many places he can't count, feeling raw and used and so completely satisfied.

Patrick eventually rolls off him and out of him, and Pete hears the snap of the condom coming off. He rolls onto his side, leaning on his arm to study Patrick. His color is still high and he looks fucked-out and shell-shocked. Pete reaches out a hand, fingers tracing over the red blotches on his cheeks, pushing wet locks of hair up off his forehead.

Patrick tears his eyes from his careful study of the ceiling to fix on Pete and looking deep into those greens makes the bottom of Pete’s stomach fall out. Because if he thought he was in trouble before, he is in so much more trouble now.

He rolls closer, pressing his face into Patrick’s sweaty neck so he doesn’t have to keep looking into those drowning pools. But it’s not enough to stop his mind. It’s racing ahead at a million miles an hour, his fingers twitching closed on Patrick’s shoulder as a single word echoes through his head.

_Mine._

It’s not true. Not even a little. Patrick belongs to the studio, to Tom, to himself, but not to Pete. Never to Pete.

That doesn’t stop Pete’s grip tightening on Patrick’s shoulder, fingernails digging in hard enough for Patrick to draw in a sharp breath.

"Pete." There’s a question in Patrick’s voice, and he can feel Patrick’s eyes on him before he even looks up, biting his lip to keep that word in his mind, not let it out into the room. It’s so hard not to say it. Patrick’s eyes are hypnotic, soaking up his will, so Pete lifts his chin and kisses him, slow and lazy and searching, feeling Patrick’s hand trace up his neck, fingers smoothing over the tender marks his mouth left.

Pete pours it all into the kiss, everything he can’t say and when they break apart they’re both breathless. Patrick’s cheeks have settled to a dusky pink and his mouth is wet and swollen. His eyes are still distracting, infinitely so, but Pete pulls himself out the hole he fell in and smiles his most charming smile at him, showing all his teeth.

"You’re not gonna sue for sexual harassment are you? Because I’m pretty sure we just violated half the crew Sexual Harassment and Discrimination Policy." It’s a half-ass jibe, not one of his best, but it cracks Patrick’s face into a smile that quickens Pete’s heartbeat. Oh, he’s got it _bad_.

"I won’t sue you if you don’t sue me." Patrick grins around the words and Pete stifles a chuckle into Patrick’s neck.

It takes real effort to pry his stiff fingers from Patrick’s shoulder, squashing the _mineminemine_ voice down as he offers Patrick his hand to shake on it.

"Deal."

***

Brian stays the whole weekend. By some unspoken truce he and Gerard don't talk about work, or about the flight Brian's got to be on Monday morning. The one that will take him to Prague for sixteen weeks shooting another film with another director.

No, they don't talk about that, but everything else is fair game, from favorite films and music to first loves and childhood. They drag themselves from the cocoon of Gerard's apartment long enough to get coffee and eat, but aside from that they hibernate, lazing around and talking and fucking.

Gerard's never had so many orgasms in such a short space of time; he should be exhausted, but there's something about Brian that just keeps him simmering in a near-constant state of arousal. The clock ticking down the hours until they'll be separated by miles and miles of ocean and sky doesn't help, reminding Gerard to take his fill now, because it could be his last meal.

Sunday night finds them curled up on Gerard's couch watching some random action film on cable. Gerard's not really paying attention to it and Brian keep snorting and tearing apart the bad stuntwork, so he doesn't feel guilty about dragging his attention from the screen, lazy hands tracing down Brian's chest, fingers dipping under the waistband of his pants.

Brian sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling shut and Gerard has to fight a satisfied smile. He's learned a lot about what Brian likes in the last forty-eight hours. So it's a surprise when Brian's hand covers his, holding tight to stop him going any lower.

"Gee, I really..." He catches a breath again, hips shifting under their hands and Gerard knows he's getting hard. "God, I really want to but... fuck man, I have to go. I fly out tomorrow; I haven't even packed yet."

Gerard presses a kiss to Brian's mouth, knowing it won't stop the words, but wanting to delay them just a little while. He knows all this, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He wishes he could forget about the flight, but the date is burned into his mind from the moment he saw it on the production diary.

He’s not ready for real life to intrude on them, not yet. Probably not ever.

He kisses Brian deeply, pressing him back into the couch and Brian goes liquid beneath him, his hands sliding up to tangle in Gerard’s hair, tugging lightly the way he knows Gerard likes it. Their bodies unfold until they’re flat on the couch, Gerard on top, chest to chest and thigh to thigh, hardness finding hardness between layers of fabric. The urgency of their movements betrays nothing of the lazy mutual handjobs they indulged in just hours before on the very same couch. Gerard just needs to take as much as he can right now, fill himself with Brian because it feels too much like it’s all about to end. Brian’s going to leave and the next time they see each other it will be as a director and a stunt coordinator again, erasing everything else.

That thought presses on him as he slides down Brian’s body, prying his pants down to swallow his cock. He works his mouth over Brian's length, tongue stroking and tasting, memorizing the flavor, the texture of Brian’s skin beneath his fingers, soft with firm muscles beneath, crisp wiry hairs of Brian’s sex under his fingers.

The guttural moans Brian makes are filed away with the tug of his fingers in Gerard’s hair. Gerard glances up, etching Brian’s face into his mind, slack mouth and tightly closed eyes. He shifts a hand to cup Brian’s balls, stroking a finger between his cheeks to just rest at his opening and that’s the button. Brian’s eyes fly open, moaning loud and long as he releases in Gerard’s mouth, giving him one more thing to remember.

He keeps Brian in his mouth until the last pulses flicker out, pulling off and licking his lips. He sits up slowly to his knees, stroking the soft skin of Brian’s hip absently.

"You should go. It’s nearly midnight ."

Brian pries his eyes open, sitting up clumsily, looking hazy and knocked out. He leans in to kiss Gerard’s too-tender lips, but when his hand dances towards his crotch Gerard catches it.

"Really. It’s fine. I don’t want to keep you."

Brian reels back, looking hard at Gerard like this is a test. He tries to tug his hand loose but Gerard doesn’t let him.

"I said it was fine, I mean..." He glances up, feeling suddenly shy, "I wanted to do that for you."

"Really?"

"Really. Come on. I’ve kept you too long already. Go pack ."

Gerard rolls back on the couch, tapping Brian’s leg encouragingly. Brian’s movements are less clumsy when he does his pants up and clambers to his feet. He catches Gerard’s mouth in a final kiss that’s comfortable and slow and sated. He breaks it with a smile and a final squeeze to Gerard’s ass before he heads for the door.

Gerard stays on the couch, keeping his eyes trained forward, heart beating hard in his ears trying not to hear Brian's motions, the scuff of his footsteps as he makes his way out. It almost works until he hears the door creak open.

"Brian!" His voice comes out in a squeak. Calling himself seven shades of idiot, he stumbles to his feet, snatching up his spare key and pressing it into the Brian’s hand without looking at his face. "If you want to come back. In case, I mean..." He cuts himself off, staring at Brian’s shoulder and trying to will away the blush he can feel crawling up his neck.

Brian doesn’t say anything, but he pockets the keys and kisses Gerard on the forehead before he slips out of the apartment.

***

Gerard’s in bed, nearly asleep, when he hears the door crack open, the creak of a suitcase being hauled inside. He stares into the darkness, listening to the slide of fabric on skin as Brian undresses and crawls into bed beside him, curling his body around Gerard’s and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Gerard twists in his arms, turning his head to kiss Brian’s mouth, soft and brief, before burrowing back into Brian’s embrace.

He falls asleep with Brian’s fingers twined in his.

***

Gerard's pretty sure he wasn't asleep more than five minutes when he opens his eyes to the milky light of barely-dawn. The bed beside him is cold, but he can hear the shower running so he knows Brian hasn't left yet. He rolls slowly onto his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck he's doing.

He still hasn't figured it out when Brian walks into the bedroom, clean shaven and dressed comfortably for travelling in relaxed jeans and a hoodie.

"You're awake." Brian's voice is quiet in the soft hours of morning.

"Why do they always schedule flights so early? Or so late? It's inhumane," Gerard argues, not because he wants to know, it's just something to say.

"It's not about when you leave, it's about when you get there," Brian says calmly, and Gerard's certain there's more meaning in there, but there's no way he's going to find it before he's had coffee. He pushes himself up to sit against the headboard, the sheet falling down around his waist, reminding him he's naked, and for the first time this weekend it makes him feel vulnerable.

"So, Prague," Gerard utters, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah. Prague," Brian agrees. It's the first time they've talked about it.

"And Greengrass."

"Yeah. Paul Greengrass. Matt Damon. You know, the usual." Brian waves an airy hand like they're talking about something a lot less important.

Gerard tries to smile but it's too hard. A crippling regret settles over him. Why did he wait so long? He could've had so much more than two days. Two blissful days, but still, only two days.

"Four months," Gerard says, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.

"You'll have the film cut by the time I'm back in LA."

"More like we'll be trying to keep the studio from pulling it apart." The bitterness leaks into Gerard's voice and he hopes Brian thinks it's for the studio.

"You'll be fine. It's a good one Gee. It was always gonna be a good one." The smile Brian gives him is gentle and has an edge of sadness. It feels too much like goodbye and Gerard's not ready for that. He pushes himself up off the head board and crawls across the bed to get closer to Brian.

"Come here," he whispers, grabbing a handful of Brian's shirt as soon as he's in reach, dragging him forwards for a kiss. It starts gentle but heats up fast until Gerard's gripping Brian's shirt so hard he might tear it, plunging his tongue inside, desperate to leave an impression, something Brian can't forget. Brian's hands rest lightly on his bare ass, fingers squeezing and Gerard's getting hard behind the crumpled sheets, even though there's no time to do anything about it.

Almost like it's reading his thoughts, Brian's phone trills and they reluctantly break apart.

"That'll be my ride to the airport," Brian says, checking the message, one hand still locked in Gerard's hair. He looks up from the screen, eyes searching Gerard's face, but for what Gerard doesn't know. "I have to go. They're downstairs," is all he says.

"Of course." It's an effort for Gerard to keep his voice matter-of-fact, particularly with the way Brian's looking at him.

"Okay." Brian's eyes flick to the door and back again, the hand he holds the phone in hovering with indecision. His fingers slide from Gerard's hair, brushing across his cheek as he pulls his hand away.

He hesitates for an agonizing moment and it takes all of Gerard's willpower not to speak, to ask any of the burning questions screaming through his mind, fighting even harder not to just grab Brian and kiss him again because this could be the _last time_ he ever gets to do that. Because who the fuck knows what's going to happen in Prague, or even what happened here? Gerard can't begin to fathom what it all means, what they are, whether he can expect to hold any claim on Brian. He's fucking useless at this and he always knew he would be. He doesn't know what the rules are and he doesn't much care beyond wanting to see Brian again and not as a fucking director and a stunt coordinator. He wants something much deeper than that.

It all runs through his head but none of it makes it out of his mouth. Brian pockets his phone and walks into the living room and Gerard trails after him, sheet clutched tight to his chest and dragging on the floor. Brian gets his suitcase upright and on its wheels, his hand on the door before Gerard's resistance gives out and he takes the last step to close the distance between him, kissing everything he can't say into Brian's lips, hoping any little piece of it gets through.

Brian breaks the kiss as his phone startles again, pressing his nose to Gerard's and brushing an errant lock of hair from Gerard's forehead with a familiar hand. He gives Gerard a small smile, holding him there, hand warm on Gerard's face for a long heartbeat before reaching for the doorknob again.

He wheels his suitcase outside and Gerard tries not to look too pathetic as he closes the door behind him, pausing briefly to tell Gerard, "Keep in touch," to which Gerard can only nod and smile weakly. Then the door pulls closed the rest of the way and it takes pretty much everything Gerard's got not to open it right back up again. It helps that he's not wearing any clothes, though.

So instead of opening the door he just leans against it.

Keep in touch. Keep in touch? Fuck Brian, just be more cryptic already.

***

Brisbane to Los Angeles is not the most comfortable flight Pete's ever had. It's business class, of course, but there are some things even a completely flat-reclining seat won't help with. It's been a long time since Pete's been on the receiving end, and he and Patrick were somewhat _enthusiastic,_ so he's feeling it on Monday when they fly. It doesn't help that he's a little sleep deprived and, even though he knows Patrick is on the same flight, he can't see him anywhere .

Fuck, he's never been this clingy. But then he's never fucked the fucking studio exec babysitter before, so there's a first time for everything, right?

He twitches in his seat, waving away the flight attendant when she offers him champagne, juice or water, wishing he could just plug in his headphones and distract himself already. Damn these airlines and their stupid rules about electronics before take-off. He's stuck for at least fifteen minutes, drumming his fingers on his knees and wishing he had even a passing interest in the Financial Review so he could pay attention to something other than the noise of his own mind.

When he can't distract himself any longer he closes his eyes and dips his toe in the pool of crazy that's rolling around in his upstairs. He tries to work through what the fuck he's doing, but all his brain will settle on is how Patrick tasted. How warm and solid he felt to sleep beside. How he looked post-orgasm, all sweat damp and green eyes and pink cheeks.

This isn't helping him fix his problem and it may well get him into trouble with one of the flight attendants, so he gives himself a mental slap and tries again.

They're calling it a two-off, he and Patrick. A two-off, much like a one-off, a single freak event that won't recur - except it did - but just once. Well, Pete is insisting that the lazy blowjob that happened on Saturday afternoon doesn't qualify as a third strike since it was technically still part of Occasion Number Two. Patrick had a hard time verbalizing his protest because Pete was sucking him off at the time, so Pete's fairly certain he won that round.

Except there'll be no winning the game. They shouldn't even be playing it. Both of their careers are on the line and pretty much the entire _Umbrella Academy_ feature film is tied to the same tracks. It shouldn't really; it completely sucks how the future of a 50 million dollar feature film seems to currently be balancing on Pete's dick, but facts are facts and there's no escaping it.

He knows if Gerard found out how he's now acquainted with Patrick in the biblical way, the carefully earned trust they've developed would crumble. The lines between studio and production are like razor-wire, sharp and permanent. Even the lowliest runner knows crossing those lines upsets the delicate balance of power and information, and if a stray email CC'ed to the wrong person can get half a dozen crew fired, or a budget sliced, Pete doesn't want to think about what fucking across the razor-wire can do.

They both know that and that's why they made a pact, not only to never speak of it, but also to never do it again. A pact Pete sealed with a kiss because everyone knows kisses are much more trustworthy than handshakes. In fact, a deal built on mutual handjobs would never fall apart; they really need to cotton on to this when they're doing peace negotiations, it could save thousands of lives .

When the fasten seatbelt sign switches off Pete breathes a deep sigh of relief, cramming the loudest, noisiest music he can into his ears and popping a sleeping tablet. He flips through the in-flight entertainment until there's something flashy and action-packed on his screen. He's gonna drown out his brain one way or the other.

He falls into a fitful doze, waking up to a dry mouth, itchy eyes and a dim plane. After laying with his eyes closed, but not sleeping, for at least ten minutes he gives up, unbuckles his seatbelt and heads for the tiny bathroom. He doesn't intend to scan the faces of sleeping passengers on the way, it just happens. His feet drag to a stop when he finds what he doesn't realize he was looking for; Patrick in row twelve, his face slack and his hat askew.

Pete hovers in the aisle by Patrick's seat, eyes scanning over Patrick's sleeping face; his delicate eyelashes, the curve of his cheek, the plump line of his lips. It physically hurts him not to touch, to just look, but that's all he does. For far longer than he should.

He's nearly committed enough to memory that he’s ready to move on when Patrick stirs, lips pulling to the side in a frown as his eyes blink open. He focuses hazily on Pete in the dim light and for one long heart-stopping moment Pete gets to see all his longing mirrored right back at him in Patrick’s eyes, before Patrick wakes up properly and schools his features back to neutral. He shakes his head ever-so-slightly at Pete, a silent warning that twists his insides up, but yeah, Pete gets it.

Before he can talk himself out of it he reaches down, taking Patrick’s hand and giving it a light squeeze. Patrick’s expression doesn’t shift at all, but he presses back before he lets go, that tiny squeeze giving Pete the strength to move his feet and continue down the aisle.

Knowing all the reasons why he needs to walk away doesn’t stop it from being the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

***

The new cutting rooms in LA are much less primitive than their setup on the Gold Coast. They have every modern convenience known to man, but Gerard can’t help feeling like they’re a bit soulless. It doesn’t help that the hallway has no identifying features whatsoever, and every door to every office is evenly spaced and identical. Gerard accidentally walks into Pete’s office at least three times a day thinking it’s his, until Pete doesn’t even look up and point next door anymore. It just becomes part of the daily routine.

Bob’s suite is pretty much the same as his set up in Australia, except he has a view of the Universal lot instead of a mosquito-infested swamp. Gerard hangs out on his couch for hours each day, half watching and half working on whatever paperwork he’s got at hand. Bob doesn’t like it when Gerard’s focused solely on him; he has a habit of jumping in and asking about things Bob is still in the middle of, so he’s learned to keep himself distracted until Bob calls for his attention. It’s a well oiled system after three films together, so they fall into it without any fanfare.

Gerard’s working on a publicity scrapbook when Bob takes a break from cutting the carnival to go... wherever it is Bob goes when he leaves the cutting room. Gerard glances up as Bob leaves the room, his eye catching briefly on the large plasma screen monitor, and the image frozen on the screen changes his look from a glance to a stare.

Bob must have paused at the end of a take because it’s Brian on the screen, in his usual on set uniform of cut-offs and a wifebeater, tattoos on show and his hair mussed and wilting from the heat. He’s barely in shot, hovering on the edge of frame giving Cillian some kind of direction, but he’s all Gerard can focus on.

It’s really stupid for his heart to be pounding so hard, for what’s basically some pixels on a screen, but he can’t help it. He pushes his paperwork off his lap, glancing at the door as he gets up and approaches the Avid desk. He doesn’t know much about how it works, but he knows where the play button is and he hits it, staring at Brian on the screen until the footage freezes to a stop when he runs out of frames. He finds the rewind button and rolls back until Brian is offscreen, and then he presses play again.

It’s barely ten seconds of footage, just Brian stepping in, saying something to Cillian that Gerard can’t even hear because he’s not mic’ed, but he rolls it back and plays it over and over. Brian appears unaware that the camera is still filming; his stance is casual and the smile he gives Cillian is unselfconscious and genuine, and Gerard can't stop looking at it. It's probably stalker-levels of creepy, but at the moment he's not thinking about that. He's just thinking about how much he misses that smile, those eyes, that man on the screen.

He forgets to be cautious so he's still bent over Bob's desk, eyes boring holes into the screen, when Bob comes back in. He hits the space bar quickly, stopping the footage from rolling but capturing Brian on the screen frozen.

Bob gives him a stern look. "Jesus Gerard, will you just call him already?"

"Sorry?" Gerard's voice pitches up too high and he doesn't quite manage to sound as casual as he wants to.

Bob just rolls his eyes and shoos Gerard away from the keyboard. "You're using my editing system to perve on the stunt coordinator. This is not healthy behavior. Stop being a freak and just call him already. Or, you know, Skype him - then you can have video, too."

"Bob, I... video?" The idea of video conferencing with Brian in Prague tempts Gerard's brain into his pants for a moment. Luckily, Bob's spun his chair to face his monitors so he doesn't see; he's already zipping through footage and Brian's image vanishes from the screen as Bob's fingers fire over the keyboard with practiced ease.

"Yeah, video. I don't think Ryan and I would've survived that wrap week when he was still stuck in Australia without it. So much better than just a voice on the line, you know?"

"Bob, I think I just found out way too much about your personal life."

"Whatever. Who cares? Call him already and stop being pathetic."

Gerard collapses back onto the couch, shoving his various art supplies to the floor so he can stretch out properly.

"I can't call him. I don't know... what we are." Gerard's not even aware of what the words mean until they're out of his mouth.

Bob's still flipping through coverage on his screen, for all intents and purposes looking like he's not concentrating on the conversation. "Since when do you need to label things?"

"I don't know." Gerard rubs a hand over his face, "I don't know Bob, I just.. what if it was just a one off thing?"

"Did it feel like a one off thing?"

Gerard sighs, rolling onto his side and curling into a fetal shape, mind full of Brian's eyes, the way he touched him, the way they _fit_. "It didn't feel like it." He doesn't add _it felt like forever_ because that's cheesy even for him.

Bob doesn't have a rejoinder for that; he runs some takes, letting Gerard chew over the thought for a while and giving him the option to drop it.

"So what... we talk on the phone for sixteen weeks and try to figure it out when he's back in LA?" Gerard's voice sounds very small, but Bob hears him.

"Something like that." Bob's tone is dismissive but the words aren't.

"Really Bob, does this ever work?"

"This being?" Bob asks pointedly, fingers still quick on the keys.

"Cross-departmental on-set hookups. God, this is such a bad idea. This shit never goes anywhere; I am fucking kidding myself."

Bob's fingers fall still on the keyboard. He spins his chair to face Gerard, the way he only does when he has something of utter importance to say - usually dropping a scene or requesting a reshoot; this time all he says is, "Ryan's moving in with me."

Gerard feels his face flush red as he realizes exactly what he's been saying and how his grand statements don't only apply to himself.

Bob doesn't look angry or even hurt, in fact he's nearly smiling and Gerard's willing to lay money on that being more about Ryan than it is about him .

"Bob, I'm sorry, I didn't mean you and Ryan."

"We qualify though don't we, by your criteria, as a pointless relationship?"

"Don't guilt-trip me Bobert, please?"

"Just saying." Bob spins back to face his monitor, letting Gerard off the hook. He hits a few buttons, images flashing on his client monitor and Gerard's just starting to think the conversation might be over when Bob throws one last nugget his way. "If you don't call, it'll definitely stay a one off thing. Is that what you really want?"

Gerard sighs and rolls onto his back. This is everything and nothing he wants to think about.

"Do you ever get sick of being right all the time ?"

Bob hits a few more keys with devastating efficiency. "Nope."

Gerard can't help feeling a little bit sorry for Ryan.

***

"Pete?" Somehow, just hearing Patrick's voice on the other end of the phone line is enough to send Pete's head into a spin.

"Patrick, hi!" Pete tries not to shriek, but it's the first time he's heard his voice in nearly two weeks and he's feeling starved. Being back in LA is weird; it's too much like he pressed rewind to before he left for Australia, and trying to live life pre-Patrick is messing with his head. He keeps glancing around his too-white, too-empty office feeling like he's missing something. Or someone. "How is it being back? All settled in again? You miss me?"

"Pete." There's a note of warning in Patrick's voice.

"You know, I miss sharing a room with you. It gets lonely. Ryan keeps sneaking off to hang out in Editorial with Bob." Pete keeps his voice light, but he's giving too much away and he knows it.

"Pete, can I-"

"Why don't you come and see me? You're making me feel all slighted. Cheap and used."

"Pete!" Patrick nearly shouts, the familiar exasperation in his voice bringing a smile to Pete's lips. "I actually have a reason for calling."

"Of course you do, Trick. You miss me."

"We need to talk." Pete's heartbeat triples. This sounds like the phone call he's been dreaming of getting from Patrick since he set foot back in LA.

He glances toward the door, lowering his voice. "Of course. Whatever you want to talk about, Trick." He tries very hard to keep his voice level, but the excitement is there.

"Not on the phone. Can I see you?"

Pete has to sit down, gripping the edge of the desk to keep himself upright. "Sure, of course. You know where my office is. I have a door that locks and everything." Fuck, if he isn't already getting hard at the thought.

Patrick is silent for a long moment before he continues, "Okay, I'll stop by tonight, say six?"

Pete nods, his head swimming too much to remember Patrick can't see him.

"Pete?" Patrick prompts, reminding Pete he hasn't verbalized anything yet.

"Sure. Six is great. I'll see you then." It takes the better part of Pete's willpower not to add an endearment after that. He sits with the phone pressed to his ear, his heart still racing long after the line goes dead.

***

"Mikey, what time is it in the Czech Republic?" Gerard pokes his head into his brother's office, trying to pretend it's an idle question, like he got it from a crossword puzzle.

"Two seconds." Mikey's usual monotone betrays nothing as he types something spiritedly into his computer. "Seven twenty five PM," he reads off the screen. "Oh, and I programmed the number into your phone."

"What number?" Gerard asks, even though he's already turning slightly pink at Mikey's knowing look.

"Brian's number in Prague. I added it to your contacts - it's the one that starts with double O, double one, four two zero." Mikey snatches a pile of stapled paper off his desk and hands it to Gerard. "And this is the latest VFX package. Andy wants you to call once you've looked at it. And Brendon's doing a lunch run to Rubio's, you just want the usual?"

Gerard nods, not really sure what's in his hand or what he's just agreed to; he's too busy being amazed that Mikey's not laying a pile of shit on him for wanting to call Brian. When the corner of Mikey's mouth twitches up into one of his almost-smiles Gerard figures, not for the first time, that he has the best brother in the world and he should just be thankful and stop trying to analyze it. Either that or Mikey's been talking to Bob.

In the end he decides he doesn't care and wanders back to his office, already thumbing through his contacts for Brian's number.

He stands in the middle of his room, phone in his hand, thumb on the send button for way too long, trying to convince himself he can do this. It's part of his job to make phone calls, to connect with people, to create with them. He can practically talk underwater. He can do this.

Right after he has a cigarette .

He shoves the phone in his pocket and grabs his smokes, going outside to the half-assed balcony the smokers have been allotted for feeding their habit. Lighting up and sucking in his first hit just reminds him of the wrap party, the way Brian looked when he lit his cigarette, the way he tasted when they first kissed. Gerard's ashamed to see his hand is shaking.

He paces the balcony. What if Brian doesn't want to talk to him? What if he blows him off? What if he laughs and tells him it was just a fling? Fuck, does it even qualify as a fling?

Gerard pulls his phone out and stares at the number on the screen. He tells himself he's an idiot, a complete fucking idiot, and then he presses send.

It takes forever to connect, dialing its way through the countries and Gerard takes another hit from his cigarette as he hears it start to ring. The cool Californian breeze isn't enough to stop his cheeks from burning as he listens, heart beating fit to burst when the ringing cuts off and Brian's voice is in his ear finally, familiar and only a little bit staticky.

He fumbles out a hello, voice breathy and strained before he realizes it's a voicemail message.

"Hi this is Brian, I can't take your call so leave me a message and I'll get you back, or you can call my agent-"

Gerard stares at the phone, thumb hovering over the cancel button until he hears the message beep. He takes a breath, trying to order his thoughts enough to speak, but it's too hard, and the idea of whatever comes out of his mouth being recorded for posterity is too much to take. He hits cancel, shoves the phone back into his pocket and lights another cigarette with sharp, angry motions.

He's really quite terrible at this.

***

It's an impulse. There is no conscious thought involved at all on Pete's part. He sees Patrick in the doorway of his office and he moves on instinct, dragging him inside by the front of his shirt, shoving the door closed and pushing Patrick up against the wall, kissing him hard.

It doesn't enter his mind that this isn't the time or place to be doing this. Or really even register that Patrick's grip on his upper arms is pushing away more than it is pulling towards. There's no room in his head for anything but Patrick. Patrick's kissing him back with an equal desperation, mouth, lips and tongues crashing and Pete's grinding onto him. He locks a hand on Patrick's neck, the other sliding down to grasp his waist, fingers gripping bare flesh under his shirt and it's so completely not enough contact he wants to whine into Patrick's mouth.

There's not a sound in the room but sharp nasal breathing and the wetness of them devouring each other's mouths. Patrick's grip on Pete's arms tightens and he pushes, forcing his arms straight until their lips separate with a wet noise.

Patrick whispers, "Pete, we can't," but his eyes don't agree; they're lust-shot and dark with want, the familiar stain of pink in his cheeks telling Pete he's not the only one who wants this. He gets stuck looking at Patrick's lips, wet with his own spit, all plump, shiny and kissable. He can't think of a reason why not.

"Tell me you don't want it and I'll stop," he whispers back, sliding his hand from Patrick's neck to his cheek, cupping the flushed curve in his fingers the way he did the night of the wrap party. Patrick's mouth falls open like he wants to say something but forgot what, and Pete just wants _in_ that mouth. He presses closer to Patrick, forcing his arms to bend until he's a breath away from Patrick's lips. "Just a little longer. You can time it, please, just let me..." He knows he sounds desperate and he doesn't care. It's too soon for this to stop, it shouldn't ever have to stop, not when they both want it - need it.

The words vanish into Patrick's mouth and he doesn't pull away, he lets Pete close the last inch and kiss him again, gently this time, like he's something precious and fragile. Patrick lets out a small whine and sinks into him, arms going slack and curling around Pete's neck. Pete presses his tongue inside to find Patrick's, pulling him closer until they're flush and fuck that's it, that's better. This is what he's been missing, what he needs.

Patrick folds into him, fingers tight in Pete's hair, and he knows they're both lost.

"Holy fuck!" Gerard's aghast exclamation is teamed with the bang of the door crashing open and it throws Pete and Patrick apart like a physical shove.

Pete wipes his mouth off, cheeks burning as he turns to face the glare of the director fuming in his doorway. "Not your office," he breathes, hoping helplessly that that'll be the end of it.

"Jesus fucking Christ Pete! What the hell? What are you doing?" Gerard glances between Patrick and Pete, shock and anger written all over him.

"I think that part's obvious." Pete pulls himself to his fullest height, calling up all his defiance, not daring to look at Patrick for even a second.

"Is this your plan to deal with the studio? Fucking the exec? How long has this been going on?" Gerard practically spits the words across the room and Pete's never been so thankful for auto-closing doors in his life. There's still a chance this hasn't been heard in the hallway.

"Gerard calm down."

"No, I will not fucking calm down! What the fuck Pete? What have you told him?" A sudden flare of panic crosses Gerard's face and he shifts his fire to Patrick. "What have you told _Tom_? Because whatever you found out isn't-"

"Gerard, I haven't told Tom anything." Patrick cuts Gerard off, his voice level and sane. "I know how it looks, but I think I can say for sure that neither of us planned this. It just happened and I'm sorry, but this is the least of your problems right now."

"Excuse me?" Gerard blinks between the two of them like he's not quite able to process. He's opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, and it would be incredibly amusing if Pete weren't so worried about Gerard throwing something heavy at him screaming 'traitor' any moment now.

"I'm sorry - least of my problems? How the fuck is my producer crossing the line with _you_ the least of my problems? Is my house on fire? Did you bring a bomb with you?"

"Kind of." Patrick's statement is ominous. Pete feels like he should be contributing something but he's too busy gawping at Patrick. "I came over because I've got some information, about the film, and I... I think it's important that you hear it."

Gerard looks doubtful but he's not screaming or breathing fire, so that's a start. Pete finally discovers he has something to say, "We should probably sit down." This draws Gerard's gaze, shooting Pete a _do you know about this?_ glare to which Pete returns a _I have no idea what this is_ look and they settle gingerly on Pete's couch while Patrick drops into an office chair. If he wasn't gripping the arms so tightly Pete probably wouldn't identify any tension in the executive at all. He's way too good at this.

"It's about the edit," Patrick starts.

"Don't say they want to replace Bob. I will walk off the goddamn film."

"They know that, Gerard. They don't want to replace him, they want - Tom wants..." Patrick takes a breath and for the briefest moment Pete can see the turmoil he's going through, how hard it is for him to keep steady. "They want to add another editor. To _help_." Pete can hear the air quotes around the word 'help'. Studio help isn't help, it's control. They want to try and gain an inside hand, steer the film from the cutting room. It's a way to cut Gerard down without having to touch him directly and Pete's seen it before. Usually they wouldn't tell you first, they'd just spring it on you.

That's when it clicks for Pete.

"Wait a second, Patrick. You're not supposed to be telling us this, are you?" He's amazed how calm his voice comes out sounding, given the level of panic he's fighting.

"No," Patrick admits.

The explosion from that statement comes from Gerard and Pete simultaneously. Gerard spurts forth a stream of bile about studios being manipulative controlling morons who can't just trust him to do his job, where all Pete has to say is, "Jesus Christ, Patrick, you could lose your job."

"I know." Patrick says it like it's a thought he's already very familiar with. Pete feels like his heart might explode, but at the same time he just wants to slap Patrick for being so goddamn stupid to risk his neck like this.

"Why tell us then?" The words are out of Pete's mouth before he's even finished thinking them. He can't tear his eyes from Patrick's face while he waits for the answer, but he can feel Gerard staring at him from his peripheral vision.

"I thought you needed to know," Patrick says, just like that. Like it's not even a big deal. Like his career isn't his life and he wouldn't be ruined not only for Universal, but for any other studio if this got out.

Pete's never wanted to kiss someone quite so much in his entire life.

After staring between Pete and Patrick for an endless moment, Gerard asks the most pressing question of all. "So what do we do?"

It doesn't need to be said that the last thing they want on the film is to be saddled with a studio editor, spying and pressing all the buttons Tom wants pressed, tearing the film up the way the studio sees fit and likely ripping it to pieces.

"If we're not supposed to know about it, what _can_ we do? If we do anything they'll know you told us," Pete points out, his fingers twitching.

"What about my Bob clause?" Gerard asks, referring to the clause in his contract that the hiring and firing of his editor needs to have his sign off. He had it added to his contract after _Revenge_.

"It only covers your main editor, not any additionals or associate editors, and they're not trying to fire Bob. I can get the lawyer to look at it, but I don't think it'll cover it," Pete admits with some frustration.

"Well, what the fuck then?" Gerard launches himself off the couch and starts pacing, shoving his hands through his hair until it's sticking out in all directions. "I'll talk to Tom, I'll talk to the fucking Director's Guild - I'm still in my eight weeks of director's cut, they can't touch me."

"They were going to wait until the eight weeks were up, and bring the Maddens on," Patrick adds, keeping his voice spookily calm.

"The fucking Maddens? No. Hell no!" Gerard's voice pitches up so high there's probably dogs out there squealing. "They are so deeply in Tom's pocket there's no way they'll take direction from me. I'll lose the film."

"No you won't Gerard, there'll be a way." Pete tries to sound reassuring, but the look on his face when he glances at Patrick is beseeching. Please god, let Patrick have a plan.

"I have a suggestion, but you're not going to like it." It's not exactly what Pete was hoping to hear, but it's something. Gerard twists on heel to face Patrick, his thin appearance of calm betrayed by the madness in his eyes. "Tell me."

"Screen the film early, before the eight weeks are up, just for Tom. Say you want his input." Patrick leans forward on his knees, keeping his voice matter-of-fact.

"But I don't."

"But he wants to give it. He hasn't seen any cut footage yet, no one has - which was totally your call to make-"

"Fuck," Gerard swears, pacing. "He wouldn't be doing this if I'd just sent the scenes in the first place."

This would be Patrick's cue to say 'I told you so', but he doesn't. He just rattles on, "It's not too late, I think if you let Tom in now, he'd chill out. You'll still be covered by the DGA, so any notes he gives, you can take on or ignore as you will, but I reckon if you invite him out for a drive, it'll make him feel less like he has to take the wheel by force - if that makes sense."

The room falls silent while both Gerard and Pete roll that one around in their minds. Pete's fairly certain that Gerard hates what the plan means, but he has to admit it's genius in its simplicity. If they can get Tom on side now it could avoid a whole lot of mess.

"So, you think if we fall in line now, he'll back off later?" Pete queries.

"I think so." Patrick swipes an escaped lock of hair back under his hat and Pete just wants to pounce on him. He's having trouble fathoming how someone as awesome as Patrick can even exist in the world.

"Gee, I think it'll work," Pete says, thinking if it does they'll both owe Patrick big. Very big.

Gerard flops down on the couch beside Pete, looking entirely unimpressed but a lot less lost and angry. "Bob won't like it," he points out with a sigh.

"He'll like it better than getting lumped with the Maddens," Pete counters.

"True," Gerard agrees, rubbing a hand over his eyes and looking way too tired. "It shouldn't have to be this hard."

"It shouldn't. But it is," Pete says, catching Patrick's eye and realizing he's not just talking about the film.

***

Gerard needs a cigarette. In fact, he needs an entire pack, but he'll start with one and see how he goes. He's still steaming at Pete for putting him in a position where he actually has to trust a studio executive. The words 'trust' and 'studio executive' shouldn't even be used in the same sentence.

He's leaning on the metal rail of the balcony, halfway through his second smoke when Pete slides in beside him, his producer face fraying around the edges.

"I'm sorry you had to find out that way."

"So am I," Gerard retorts with acid in his voice, but he regrets it straight away. "Am I that hard to talk to? Couldn't you have told me and saved me the heart attack?"

"It's not supposed to be happening. It was supposed to be a one-off. Well... a two-off." There's a self-deprecating smile dancing on Pete's lips.

"A three-off?" Gerard poses.

"Well, I guess it is now." Pete leans forward, twisting his fingers between the metal bars holding the railing up like he needs something to distract his hands. "Besides, you never told me about you and Brian."

"You say that like there's something to talk about."

"Isn't there?"

Gerard sighs, collapsing forward onto the rail until he's balancing almost all his weight on it. "I don't know. I think I'm fucking it up." Pete doesn't say anything, just nods and leans on the railing, echoing Gerard's posture. "It's been two weeks since I've talked to him."

"You gonna call?" Pete's head twitches to the side, considering.

"Yeah, I suppose I should." Gerard can't help feeling like it's still a bad idea.

"Well, tell him I said _hi_."

"Yeah, sure I will," Gerard responds. That's two people who've told him to call Brian now, three if you count Mikey who managed to get the message across non-verbally. He doesn't really have much of a choice.

Pete shoots Gerard his best producer smile and starts to turn. Gerard hesitates briefly before giving in to the impulse to ask, "Patrick kind of saved our asses back there didn't he?"

"Yeah, he kind of did."

"Even though we could really hang him out to dry with the studio for telling us that."

"Yeah," Pete agrees, eyes shining with something that looks a lot like pride.

Gerard turns back to the railing, digging another cigarette out and lighting it."You know if it ends up being a four-off or a five-off, I probably won't mind so much."

"Maybe you could tell Patrick that for me. He needs some convincing."

Gerard snorts. "Since when do you need help convincing anyone of anything?" He shoots the question over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, and for once Pete doesn't have a rejoinder. He just gives Gerard his most charming smile and slips back inside.

Gerard takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing smoke out into the Californian sunshine. "That's my boy."

Time to practice what he preaches. He pulls out his phone, scrolls through to the Brian contact and presses send on the long international number before he can talk himself out of it. This time Brian answers on the third ring, and Gerard nearly gasps at how strongly the sound of his voice hits him, how much he's missed it.

"Brian, it's Gerard." It's a relief to hear his voice coming out sounding relatively normal.

"Gerard, hey! Fuck, awesome to hear from you. Two seconds, alright?" There's a lot of phone shuffling noises and Gerard can hear Brian yelling to someone about taking a break. When he comes back to the phone his voice sounds less echoey, and there's not as much background noise, like he's slipped outside. "Hey, I'm back, how are you?" He sounds energized and a little breathless, like Gerard caught him in the middle of a rehearsal.

"Fine, yeah. Director's cut so it's all a bit crazy as usual, but I'm coping." Gerard plays with his hair as he speaks, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette in an unseen show of nerves. "How's Prague?"

"Fucking cold." Brian's laugh sounds forced and Gerard wonders if maybe he isn't the only one who's nervous. "Good though, the crew's really good and Paul's great, Matt's great; everyone's fucking great."

"Glad to hear it." Gerard grins, searching his mind for something to talk about that isn't Tom or Pete and Patrick. He ends up telling a story about Bob and Ryan and a Red Bull shortage which sets Brian off on a story about a flood in the catering tent. They trade tales for a while until Gerard registers the babble in the background of Brian's phone, reminding him Brian's at work and he should probably let him get back to doing his job. Brian agrees and they play the game of trying to end the phone call.

"Is this the best number to reach you on? I mean, if I ever work out these time zones?" Brian asks, making Gerard feel like a teenager the way it shoots excitement through him in that _he's gonna call_ way.

"Yeah sure. And you know me, I keep weird hours, I wouldn't worry about time zones that much. If I'm asleep I won't answer." Gerard winces into the phone at just how desperate that sounds.

"Sure Geeway, I'll remember that. If I ever accidentally call you at 5am and wake you up, you are officially not allowed to yell at me now." There's a smile in Brian's voice that pulls at Gerard's lip.

"Deal," Gerard says with a laugh.

There's a slight pause before Brian continues, "I'm really glad you called."

"Yeah, me too." Gerard's still smiling through the endless goodbyes and the click of the line going dead. He puts the phone back in his pocket, habit making him reach for his cigarettes before he realizes he doesn't want one. He shoves them back in his hoodie and heads back to the cutting room, ready to work.

***

Bob's not happy with the plan, not at all. The idea of dragging the studio head through the cutting room doors four weeks early puts his entire schedule on fast forward. Looking down the barrel of long days and weekend work does not make for a cheery editing team, but Bob is a trooper and he doesn't grumble a lot even though Pete really thinks he's entitled to. He makes it Brendon's responsibility under pain of death to ensure the kitchenette is always well stocked with Red Bull and a wide variety of sugary treats and, once they get in the swing of the new breakneck pace, the days slide past too fast.

Pete doesn't bat an eye when Brendon puts another round of timesheets with seven days marked down for everyone in front of him to sign. It's been an expensive few weeks of overtime and petty cash meals, but it can't be helped. Every time he wanders past Bob's door, he and Gerard are in the middle of something intense and Pete can't help feeling useless. They drag him into the room and show him things when they need a fresh pair of eyes, but for the most part there's nothing he can do to help them push forwards.

His only option is to stay out of their way, make sure they're fed, and keep any extraneous demands on them at bay. That doesn't leave him with much to do for the bulk of his day, so when he's answered all his emails he decides it's time to tackle a new challenge.

He unlocks his secure drawer and pulls out his _Black Parade_ script.

Flicking through the pages and glancing at his handwritten pencil marks in the margin, he shuffles his mental paperwork, pushing the most important and time-consuming tasks to the top of the pile. Obviously money is the first port of call, he needs to figure out which studios and production companies deserve a shot at backing the project. He scribbles out a list of the companies he's aware of, adding a few more names to the list after some internet searches and a few well placed phone calls.

When the list feels exhaustive, he taps a finger down it, thinking he wants to get it down from twenty-odd to maybe three options before he puts it in front of Gerard. Those three options better be damn shiny, too.

Before he's even realized what he's doing, he's plucked up the phone handset and hit Patrick's number on speed dial. Patrick's shit-hot at this kind of thing, he can probably help Pete cull it to at least half the length.

"Patrick Stump." Patrick's got his business voice on, which is great, that's the exact voice Pete wants to hear.

"Hey Trick, what do you think of Dark Castle?"

"Are you making a horror film or a psychological thriller?" Patrick rattles back without even a pause and Pete's suddenly so glad he called.

"No, neither," he answers, rocking back in his chair and listening.

"Well, that's what they do. That's pretty much all they do - genre films. What's this about anyway?"

Pete explains in as much detail as he feels comfortable, not letting on that it's Gerard's project. It's a promising script with an established director attached, and Pete wants to figure out his options for financial backing. He can practically hear Patrick's brain ticking, but he seems to abide by his super-spidey-exec senses and doesn't push for any specifics, sticking to generic questions about budget and genre.

"So how about Revolution?" Pete presses, tracing his finger over the name on his list.

Patrick makes a noise that to most ears would sound non-committal but Pete can hear the 'no' hiding in there.

"Why not?" Pete asks, already hovering his pen over the list, ready to cross Revolution off.

"They're a bit... interfere-y," Patrick offers.

"Oh. Right." Pete gets the message clearly and swipes his pen across the page, crossing them out and shifting to the next candidate. "Fox?" he asks.

Patrick makes that noise again and Pete asks, "Hmm, because?"

"Whatever budget you actually need, they'll slice twenty percent off it. At least."

"Right.' Pete's pen swipes again and he continues down the list. And down and down and down. Budget skimping and interference make second and third appearances; some companies are just too small to offer the kind of money they need, and then there's the ones with religious ties that will want script changes and no blood onscreen whatsoever.

He's left looking at a mess of pen scribbles, without even one option that satisfies his most basic criteria.

"Fuck man, are there really _no_ production companies that can secure a hundred million without bringing a bunch of bullshit with them? Patrick, come on, what am I missing?" Pete taps the pen in frustration, waiting for the big answer.

"That's the business man, take it or leave it." There's a familiar resignation in Patrick's tone.

"You're kidding right? Man, you know _my_ production company would get it right. We'd pick the right projects, give them the budget they need to really fly and not get in the way of actually making the movie unless it was off the rails," Pete rants, so frustrated with this process his skin is itching. It's so clear to him what he needs, and it's just ridiculous that it doesn't already exist.

" _Your_ production company?" Patrick asks, and Pete can hear the knowing smile in his voice. He sits up, suddenly uncomfortable. He hasn't actually talked aloud about this idea to anyone seriously.

"So I have a hypothetical production company. Doesn't everyone?" A nervous laugh leaks out after the words and he really hopes Patrick will let it slide.

"Why is it only hypothetical?" Patrick presses, and Pete's hand finds its way to his forehead, rubbing his temples. He really doesn't want to discuss this.

"Yeah, so, maybe I'm not ready for it to not be hypothetical."

"But you've got a project, and it sounds pretty promising."

"Patrick come on, one hundred million? I can't spearhead that, no way. No one's gonna give me that kind of money."

"Bullshit," Patrick spits, and suddenly Pete's sitting bolt upright, his heart pounding. "I've seen bigger idiots than you get money for projects that wouldn't make it into my maybe-if-you're-desperate script pile. With _Umbrella Academy_ you'll have five films under your belt, and they've all made profit. Fuck Pete, you could totally do it."

Pete opens and closes his mouth a few times, unable to find the words to counter that. There's no argument to make, because it's _Patrick_ and Patrick knows his fucking shit. If Patrick thinks it's possible, then fuck, maybe it actually is.

Long after he's hung up the phone, he still can't stop thinking about it. The possibility niggles at his mind until he finally gives up on trying to distract himself from it with other work and decides to exorcise it by putting it down on paper.

Hours leak away before Pete is staring at a scrawly handwritten page of notes that is basically a blueprint of Decaydence Films, the company he’s always dreamed of helming. There’s notes about who he’d employ, what the mission statement would be, and a rough sketch of a logo. There's a million scribbled question marks next to pay scales, rent, financials, connections and dozens more logistical concerns.

Having it all on paper brings him a strange kind of calm. At a glance, he can see the frightening amount of work he'd need to do, but it also makes it feel very, very real. Even with the dozens of question marks in front of him Pete already knows there are two items on the blueprint that are essential to the success of his new business.

One is Decaydance Films first project, Gerard Way’s _The Black Parade_.

The other is Patrick Stump.

***

Gerard pretty much moves into Bob's edit suite during working hours, which is the bulk of his time. They're eating three meals day at the cutting room, and Gerard's really only home long enough to sleep and shower. It's exhausting but exhilarating; however, it means Gerard is far from thrilled when his cell phone chime wakes him up one morning while it's still dark out. After stabbing violently at his alarm clock with no effect, he realizes it's his phone and shoves it to his ear, pressing send.

"Yes?" His voice is thick with sleep.

"Gerard, hey." Brian's voice is low and liquid in his ear. "Did I wake you?"

"No. Well, yeah. But it's okay. It's good to hear your voice." Gerard rolls onto his back and stretches, feeling all warm and catlike. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing much. Finished up early at the studios so I'm bumming around at home. I waited a whole hour so it wouldn't be crazy early for you, aren't you proud?"

"Mmmph." Gerard glances at the clock, the numbers swimming in front of him. "Six am is still crazy early, just for the record."

Brian's chuckle is low and sultry, drawing Gerard's attention to the fact that he's just woken up and that's not the only thing that's _up_.

"You're not allowed to be mad, remember?" Brian reminds him, a smirk in his voice.

"I'm not mad." Gerard rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his dick into the mattress and wriggling a little. It doesn't do anything to assuage his desire but it feels good, tearing a ragged breath from him, which escapes down the phone.

"Gerard..." Brian's voice drops even lower and it makes Gerard's dick clench to hear his name spoken like that. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing,"Gerard lies, grinding down on the bed again. Fuck, he wants to roll onto his back and stick his hands down his pants. It should be illegal for Brian to have a voice like that.

"Try again." Brian's tone goes lower and more teasing; Gerard can hear a shift and a breath and the slide of fabric. "If you tell me what you're doing, I'll tell you what I'm doing." Gerard has to suck in a breath at that. He presses his hips down harder, feeling the pressure of his cock against his belly.

"Well..." Gerard can feel his face burning as he searches for the words. "I've just woken up, I'm still in bed, I'm wearing flannel pajamas and..."

"And?" Brian prompts, sounding breathless and it makes Gerard burn.

"And I'm hard. Really hard." He flushes with heat saying it, something between embarrassment and lust, and it just makes him harder.

"Mmm," Brian hums, voice deliciously rumbly and Gerard has to bite his lip to keep from whining. "Well I'm lying on the couch. TV's on but I'm not watching it. Oh and did I mention I'm naked?"

"Oh." The word comes out on a sigh as Gerard's mind embraces the picture. "What color is the couch?"

"Really, Gee?"

"What? I'm a visual person."

Brian's laugh is warm in his ear. "It's blue. Light blue, okay?"

"Yeah okay, I've got that." Gerard updates his mental picture, starting to feel way too warm in his pajamas and covered in sheets. "What are you doing?" he breathes.

"Jerking off." Brian's reply is so casual Gerard nearly chokes on his own breath. "Want to join me?"

"Yeah. Fuck yeah," Gerard pants, wrestling his shirt off and flipping over to struggle with the drawstring on his pants, which has decided to be stubborn. He finally gets it undone and kicks the pajamas off, leaving him lying on his bed bare-assed and clutching his phone to his ear.

"So, I'm... not wearing anything now."

"Good," Brian purrs, voice all gravelly. "I bet that's a sight."

"I'm sure it is," Gerard murmurs, holding back a bitter laugh.

"I know it is," Brian presses on, sounding sinfully breathy and hot. "You gonna jerk off for me, Gerard?"

Gerard sucks his breath in sharply and he knows Brian hears it. He puts his free hand on his cock, holding low and tight, fingers forming a tight circle around the base. He tries to hold still but his hips buck up without his permission, tearing a low, needy noise from him.

"That sounds good." Brian's voice hitches and Gerard knows he's stroking himself now. Fuck, he wishes he could see that, all that skin and ink. Brian's hand, Brian's cock. Fuck, he has a really nice cock.

"Thanks. I like your cock too."

"That was my out-loud voice wasn't it?" Gerard's voice quivers as heat floods him from head to toe.

"Yeah." Brian's chuckle in response is warm. "But it's good, keep talking. Tell me what you're thinking about."

"You, obviously," Gerard chuckles and the breathy noise Brian makes is so worth it. Gerard starts to move his hand, sliding it up and down and not even trying to contain the moan it drags out of him.

"Yeah, what else?" Brian's voice is breathless and eager and Gerard knows his hand is busy; he keeps his own going as he searches for words.

"Thinking about... about..." Gerard has to slow his strokes a little to make some brain room. "What it's like when you fuck me."

Brian releases a long breath and there's a growl buried in it. "Yeah. Fuck Gerard. I've been thinking about that too."

The heat in his voice speeds Gerard's hand. Heat flushes up his arms, across his chest, blossoming in his cheeks and nesting deep in his belly and crotch. "Brian, fuck, your cock, I want you to fuck me so deep."

"Yeah, fuck yeah. Gee I wanna fuck your ass, jerk your cock 'til you come everywhere."

Gerard makes a strangled noise, every word out of Brian's mouth sending fire right down and through him. He quickens his hand, fingers squeezing on every stroke, running his thumb of the head of his cock, spreading thick slippery precome over himself.

"Brian," he pants, shuddering, "Brian I'm so close, so fucking close."

"You gonna come for me Gee?" Brian sounds breathless and eager, "Make it loud so I can hear it, so I can jerk off to it?" Brian's harsh breaths keep pushing into the phone, blowing against the mic and Gerard can see it in his mind, Brian on the couch, one hand on the phone, the other on his cock and it's so fucking hot he could expire. "I'm gonna come so fucking hard."

"Brian. Please. I... ah..." Gerard's hips shudder upwards, cock pulsing in his hand as he strokes faster, firmer.

"Come for me Gee. Come like I'm fucking you." It's the demand in Brian’s voice that does it. Gerard tosses his head back, pressing his eyes closed as he burns all over. He falls into Brian’s voice, into the moment, letting his words fall out unchecked with the stroke of his hand.

"Fuck me, oh fuck Brian I'm... I'm-" The noise Gerard makes is deep and strangled and so loud. His hips leap up off the bed, hand moving in a blur, pulling his orgasm out his cock as he explodes; spurting in his hand and keening down the phone loud and desperate.

"Gee, _fuck_..." Brian groans, panting and huffing hard into the phone. Gerard hears it, actually _hears_ it in his voice, the deep groan of his completion and it's got to be the hottest thing he's ever heard.

There’s no sound on the line but their agonized breathing for long minutes. The haze in Gerard’s head clears slowly as his pulse calms. He’s boneless and sweaty, sated and smeared with his own release. He feels _amazing_.

"Well that was messy." There’s a laugh in Brian’s voice and Gerard can hear him shifting around, probably cleaning up.

"Yeah. And hot," Gerard adds on a sigh.

"Yes. Very hot." There’s a grin in Brian’s voice and Gerard can feel an answering one pulling at his own mouth. "So, tell me about the rest of your day."

Gerard rolls onto his side, burying himself in the sheets as they slip back into the kind of conversation they’ve been having every few days lately. Gerard tends to call when he’s having a smoke break and Brian saves his calls for after he gets home, which usually times with Gerard’s lunch break.

It’s nothing earth shattering, but it’s familiar and comfortable and Gerard is reluctant to sign off. He’s already going to be late to work and, as he tells Brian, "Bob’s gonna kick my ass."

"Tell him to go easy on you. I need your ass in good shape when I get back to LA."

Gerard laughs loud and abrupt at that, but there’s no way he’s telling Bob.

***

It's edging close to three am in on the morning of the day Tom Meyer's due at the cutting rooms when Gerard finally stumbles into Pete's office. Pete's nodding off in front of his computer, his presence probably unnecessary, but he's unwilling to leave until everything's in hand. He won't be able to sleep properly until he knows there's something ready for Tom to see, anyway.

Gerard looks exhausted, his eyes rimmed in red and his hair is a scraggled mess. He's still wired though, fingers twitchy and he keeps shifting on his feet like he can't keep still.

"All done?" Pete asks.

"Yeah. Well, as done as it can be four weeks early. Bob and Spencer are gonna stay another hour or so, clean up the sound, you know?' Gerard paces a little, looking nervous. "Fuck Pete, it's rough. It's still so rough, no visual effects and Spencer's doing his best, but we're missing so many sound effects and the temp music is so _temp_."

"So we do our little speech before we screen it and explain all that."

"Yeah, I know. And he'll say he gets it, but he won't because he's a fucking _hack_. Fuck, I would've loved a sound mix for this one."

"That would've taken some of the "casual" out of our casual personal screening." Pete repeats the reasoning they both settled on weeks ago and Gerard nods, they've been over this.

"I don't know, Pete. I just don't know. It feels too soon, like it's all just gonna blow up in our faces."

"You want me to pull the screening? I can, but we may as well open the doors and let the Maddens waltz on in." Pete keeps his voice matter-of-fact, but the words are still incendiary.

"I fucking know, okay?" Gerard twists a hand into his hair. It's too late to punk out now; Tom will be in at 9am sharp and they're just going to have to show him what they've got. Whatever that is.

"Gerard, it's good. The performances are there, the story is there, everything else is just window dressing. If Tom can't see that, we've got such bigger problems than the Maddens, it's not even funny."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Gerard seems to settle a little, still restless but not pacing as much. "Fuck, I hope Patrick's right about this screening."

"I trust him on this one. He's good at this kind of shit." Pete feels like he's going out on a limb saying it, particularly since Gerard's aware of his less-than-professional encounters with Patrick, but it doesn't make the statement any less true. Gerard looks at him hard with bloodshot eyes.

"Yeah well, I really hope you're right."

"I try to be," Pete says with a grin. "You should go, try and catch some sleep before tomorrow."

Gerard nods again, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, I will. Hey, Pete?"

Pete glances up at the question. "Yeah?"

"You mind staying, just until Bob and Spencer are finished? Make sure they leave and everything?"

"Course. No problem. I don't want either of them driving; I'll organize cars for them. It'll give me something to do."

"Thanks." Gerard's smile is tired but genuine. "See you tomorrow. Bright and early." He yawns, padding out of Pete's office, already pulling out his phone and Pete can hear him quietly talking to Brian, voice fading as he vanishes down the hallway. Sometimes time zones can be a blessing instead of a curse.

Now if Pete can just get through the next eight hours, everything will be just peachy.

***

Tom Meyer is not a tall man, or a particularly attractive one, but he's powerful. Pete ushers him into Bob's cutting room with a warm smile, like they're old friends. Gerard pushes himself to his feet from where he's perched nervously on the arm of Bob's couch, crossing the two steps to press palms with the man who could make or break his film.

He's careful to keep his expression schooled to pleasant, trying to get a read on Tom, but the man is damn near unreadable. He smiles and greets Gerard, shakes hands with Bob and they all make small talk for a solid five minutes about the fucking _weather_. Gerard thinks he's doing a pretty good job of keeping his nerves from showing, but he wants to get the screening started already. The sooner it starts, the sooner it'll be over and maybe he won't feel quite so much like throwing up.

Thankfully, Pete steps in.

"We know you're a busy guy, Tom; we should probably get this thing started so we don't keep you too long. Thanks so much for coming, we really appreciate you fitting us in to your schedule like this." Pete's good, so fucking good at this. He makes it sound like Tom's doing them a favor, not that they've been breaking their backs to put it in front of him under great duress. Gerard's pretty sure he couldn't have pulled that off anywhere near as convincingly.

They settle on the couch. Given the whole "casual" feel they've been aiming for, they'd decided the best approach would be just to show it in the cutting room, not a theatre, because that would create too much expectation of something more finished. It's as polished as it can be given that they only wrapped shooting six weeks ago, but there's still a lot missing.

"So you'll see a lot of blue screens, a lot of empty frames where there should be Terminauts, visible wires, missing set extensions, that kind of thing, you know?" Gerard explains and Tom nods and smiles like he's heard it all before, which he no doubt has. "Also, as you know, it's all production sound. We have some temp music in, but it's not quite right, and of course a lot of the offscreen lines and all of Pogo's dialogue are just scratch recordings of Bob here, and his assistant Spencer."

"Hey you never know, maybe we'll keep them in?" Tom jokes and Gerard forces a stiff laugh that mixes with Bob and Pete's. Yeah, they've never heard that one before.

"So let's get this thing going then," Gerard wraps up, never happier to finish talking in his life.

He settles into one corner of the couch, Pete takes the middle and Tom sits at the other end. Bob flicks out the light and hovers his hand over the space bar, glancing up to Gerard's eyes. Gerard gives him a nervous smile, and Bob nods, hitting the button to start the screening before dropping into his own chair and wheeling backwards to a good vantage point.

From the moment the Universal logo flares across the screen Gerard's heart is in his mouth. It stays there for pretty much the entire screening.

There's a term Bob sometimes uses - "bad screening". It doesn't refer to technical difficulties, or audience reactions, it's talking about his _own_ reaction to the film. It's those times he just can't focus, can't get into the story, it doesn't work for him. It might be a great screening for everyone else in the room, but for Bob it's a "bad screening".

Today, for Gerard, it's a "bad screening".

He doesn't take in the story at all. He can't focus. His eyes stay stuck to the screen, but all his concentration is focused on the man at the other end of the couch. Every time Tom moves, shifts, coughs, fuck if he _breathes_ too loudly Gerard notices, his mind awhirl with possible problems with whatever is in the screen at that point in time. He knows it's paranoid, he knows it's irrational, but he can't stop himself. When Tom sneezes during the Conductor's speech Gerard almost has a heart attack.

The screening can't end soon enough. By the time they fade to black on the final shot, Gerard's nearly ill with worry, but he forces a smile and turns to look down the couch at Tom, steeling himself for disaster.

Tom doesn't even wait to be prompted, he starts running right in. "You know, I couldn't tell from the dailies. I knew they were good, but it's seeing it cut together now, I can tell."

Gerard holds his breath, waiting for the rest.

"This film is going to make money," Tom finishes with a wide grin and Gerard just about faints with relief. Tom launches into a spiel about demographics and advertising and a "higher calibre of superhero movie" but Gerard stopped listening after the money line. That's as much as he could ever have hoped for from Tom Meyer. If he thinks the film is going to make money then shit on a stick, the man is fucking happy.

Tom prattles on for a while about the promise of the film and how they'll need to market it right and Gerard and Pete nod along. The relief in the room is almost tangible and when Gerard meets Bob's eyes past Tom's profile, there's a smile lurking on Bob's lips.

There are stupid questions of course. There will always be stupid questions. Of course they'll be adding CG explosions to the carnival. Yes, they'll be filling out the sound in the fight scenes. Yes, there'll be more blood in the diner. No, the music in the rooftop scene isn't quite working. The fact that Tom's focusing on details rather than big picture notes is really satisfying, because it means there aren't glaring problems with big ticket items like story and performance. Those are two issues that are really hard to remedy without reshoots or a lot of dialogue looping.

By the time Tom checks his watch and announces he's got somewhere else to be, Gerard is feels almost normal. They usher Tom out, all smiles and niceties and paying lip service to social lunches that will never happen. After the door closes behind him Gerard says aloud what they're all thinking.

"I sure hope that worked."

Pete shoots him a grin. "Well, all we can do now is wait. How about we grab some lunch?"

The entire post team straggles down to the commissary and it isn't until Gerard's finished his burger that Pete's phone rings. Pete glances at the screen, muttering "It's Patrick" and the whole table goes silent.

Pete slips outside to take the call so Gerard doesn't even get to hear one half of the conversation. He picks at Mikey's fries nervously until Pete gets back to the table.

He knows they're good before Pete's even opened his mouth; he's grinning too wide for it to be bad news.

"No more Maddens. They've called off the hounds." Pete sticks up his hand for a high five and Ryan shoots out of his chair to comply.

"Fucking yes!" Spencer whoops and then it's high fives all round like they've just won the fucking Superbowl. Gerard can't move for a moment, just sits at the table feeling his whole body get light. Bob wraps an arm around him and Gerard can feel the answering relief when he hugs Bob back. It's been a rough few weeks for Bob, but fuck, he came through like a star.

"Thanks, Bob," he says softly into his ear, before turning to the table, "Thanks so much, everyone, really, it was a long hard push, but we really made it." He raises his bottle of coke and everyone grabs their cans and plastic cups to chink with his.

The finish line isn't any closer than it was five minutes ago; there's still the director's cut, studio notes, audience screenings, visual effects finals, scoring and sound mixing to get through, but when Gerard looks around at his shit-hot post team, it definitely feels in range.

This screening with Tom is only a small victory, but he'll take it.

***

Pete rings the doorbell on Patrick’s two story house in the hills, slightly freaked out by how large and expensive the place looks. He’s a little peeved that this is the first time he’s been here and he had to invite himself, and he hangs on tight to that feeling rather than letting himself be overwhelmed by the stench of money.

When Patrick answers the door he’s wearing a nearly-destroyed Prince t-shirt, jeans worn-through at the knees and a battered baseball cap that looks like he just threw it on as he walked to the door. He’s also sporting an exasperated expression.

"Pete, you know it’s polite to call first."

"Then you’d just tell me not to come." He shoves a white cardboard pastry box at Patrick stating, "I brought you cake!"

Patrick rolls his eyes but he takes the box that’s being shoved at him.

"It’s thank you cake. For calling off the wolves." Pete gives Patrick his most charming smile.

"We’re not talking about that Pete, remember? Didn’t happen." Patrick stays firmly planted in the doorway, his expression serious but Pete can see the smile hiding in his eyes. It gets brighter when Pete mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

"You’re not going to invite me in?" Pete challenges, stepping up to the top step so he can look Patrick in the eye. "You don’t want to eat all those by yourself, you’ll get a sugar high."

"Pete." The note of warning in Patrick’s voice should be enough, but it just makes Pete want to push harder.

"Come on, we’re allowed to be friendly; I promise I won’t rape you. I have honest-to-goodness real work-related questions, too." Pete snatches a neatly folded list from his back pocket and waves it at Patrick. Patrick snatches it from his hand, unfolds it and scans it before stepping back to let Pete past.

Inside is more homely than outside; comfortable but not flashy furniture that feels more like Patrick's style. It's still larger than anything Pete could dream of affording, and he's starting to wonder if he's kidding himself that Patrick would ever be willing to leave a studio job that puts him in this kind of a tax bracket for some harebrained scheme Pete's cooked up. But he's damned if he's not gonna try.

There's a television the size of Pete's entire bathroom in the corner, quietly muttering a news report to the comfortable looking sofa that's strewn with notebooks, pens and a laptop. Patrick dumps the cake box on the coffee table and shoves the various crap off to one end of the sofa. Pete settles into the newly cleared space, nodding when Patrick asks "Coffee?"

Pete picks the cake box open as Patrick makes banging noises in the kitchen with various coffee-related accoutrements. He's already liberated one of the half dozen cupcakes from the box and is picking carefully at the frosting.

"Hey, they're supposed to be mine. Don't I get first pick?" Patrick deposits two steaming mugs on the coffee table, dropping onto the couch and peering into the box.

"I'm the guest, you should offer me one first."

"The guest who invited himself. And I can't offer you one, you already took one." If Pete didn't know better he'd say Patrick was sulking.

"Semantics." Pete shakes his head, poking his cupcake with a finger so it comes away covered in butter cream. He shoves the coated finger towards Patrick, "Want some?"

Patrick shrinks away from the offered hand. "No, I'm good, thanks."

"Come on Trick... it's good, try some." Pete keeps pushing and Patrick keeps trying to duck away until Pete launches himself bodily at him, tackling him onto his back and smearing sweet cream all over his cheek and upper lip.

"Pete. Get off me." Patrick's voice is level but he's breathing hard. He feels warm, solid and delicious under Pete, their chests touching and one of Pete's legs is hitched over Patrick's knee.

Pete doesn't make a move to get up; in fact, he leans closer, breath coming hard as he lets his face sway down towards Patrick's. This wasn't supposed to be the plan, but it's better than his other plan. This is the plan where Patrick is _right there,_ and how the hell is Pete supposed to resist that?

"Pete," Patrick whispers, and it's a warning, but Patrick's not moving, not struggling which Pete reads as an invitation, swiping his tongue at the smear of cream on Patrick's upper lip and savoring the way it makes him shiver.

When he leans that last half inch closer and covers Patrick's mouth with his own, he tastes like sugar and chocolate. It only takes a moment for Patrick's mouth to melt open under his, taking Pete's tongue, swallowing the little moan he makes. Pete gets bolder, sliding a hand up into Patrick's hair, knocking his hat sideways and sliding down on him so their bodies press tight. God, he's missed this. He's been starving for it so long and he can tell by the way Patrick's sucking his tongue and gripping his waist that he's not the only one.

He growls low in his throat, grinding down on Patrick and the hand Patrick's got on his waist tightens. He bites at Patrick's lower lip, reveling at his indrawn hiss of breath in response. He pulls back, eyes darting over Patrick's face, taking in the flushed cheeks and hazy green eyes. And Patrick's mouth, fuck, he has to kiss him again.

Pete crushes their mouths together, eagerly welcoming Patrick's tongue as his whole body goes liquid. He slides a hand between them, fingers dancing along the soft flesh or Patrick's waist, slipping inside the top of his jeans. He's nearly found enough room to push inside when Patrick's hands find his wrists, grasping firmly and holding tight. Patrick's head twists sideways, breaking the kiss and leaving them both panting.

"Pete, don't. Please." Patrick's voice is throaty and raw, and his words stop Pete short. His first instinct is to tug his hands loose and get back to what he was doing, but the way Patrick's looking at him, the desperate pleading in his eyes, is his undoing.

Pete wants to ask 'why'. To scream it at him until he's blue in the face, but he already knows the reasons and there's too many of them and he hates every last one.

The tension on Patrick's face betrays how hard it is for him to stop. Pete knows like he knows his own name that if he ignores the words and trusts that look, leans down and takes Patrick's mouth again he'll have him. Patrick's resolve will fold like a cheap tent and they could fuck right here on his giant couch and they'd both love it.

But Patrick said please. Fucking _please_ and as much as Pete wants to reach out and grab this with both hands, fuck the consequences, he knows it's only going to fuck things up worse.

He clenches his hands to fists slowly, schooling his breathing and trying to calm down. He's hard as hell where their crotches are flush and he tries to ignore it as he shifts gingerly to sit up. He climbs off Patrick, flopping back on couch and staring at the coffee table because he can't look at Patrick right now without wanting to jump right back on him.

"I'm sorry." His voice is small and breathless.

"I know," Patrick breathes, too quiet.

Pete clenches his hands together in his lap, feet jittering on the carpet. His self control is seriously dissipating. It's okay though. He can do this. "Only four more months, right?" He tries to inject some enthusiasm into the words, but it comes out false.

"Four months... what?" Patrick asks and the question flips Pete's stomach over.

When Pete looks up, Patrick's expression is completely blank. "In four months, the film will done." There's a mild nag in his voice, a _come on, Patrick_ that suddenly feels desperate. Pete rattles on, "We won't be on opposite sides anymore. You'll be on something else, I'll be on something else. Nothing to stop us." There's a hopeful smile hovering at his lips, but the way Patrick's staring at him, uncomprehending, is keeping it from finding its place.

"Patrick?" he asks, his voice nearly shaking with anticipation.

"No. Pete." Patrick's head shakes slowly. "No it's not..." Pete's stomach twists violently and he honestly thinks he might throw up. "Pete, we'll always be on opposite sides. I'm studio. I'll always be studio."

Pete's hands itch to slap him, shake him, tell him to take it back. But Patrick looks so sad, so shattered, that he can't. It becomes all too clear why Pete was always the one pushing and Patrick was the one stepping back. He's known this all along.

"This is fucked. This is _so_ fucked," Pete spits, shoving himself off the couch and stalking towards the door because if he doesn't he doesn't get out, right now, he's gonna do something they'll both regret. Or at least Patrick will. When he gets to the front door it's got some kind of lock on it he can't work out, so he shoves and shakes it and swears at it, pounding his fist on the door.

Patrick catches his hands, pulling them down with soft fingers and even that simple contact makes Pete's breath hitch. He keeps his eyes on the door, not letting him himself look as Patrick slips the bolt for him, swinging the door open and Pete steps outside into the cold slap of night air. When he turns around and lets himself look at Patrick, he has to stiffen his legs so he doesn't step right back inside.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, his pink-cheeked face framed by the door and Pete can't help himself. He takes that last step, crushes his mouth to Patrick's and kisses him, tastes him, commits him to memory. He pulls back when he feels Patrick start to soften, when the hand on his shoulder starts to fist in his shirt. It's a really fucking hard thing to do.

He stands on the doorstep, panting for breath, drinking in the sight of Patrick, kiss-swollen and hungry as he gently pulls the door shut. He stares at the closed door for a long minute before he's ready to walk away.

Taking the stairs two at a time he makes a decision. This is the last time he'll ever have to walk away from Patrick. He's going to fix this. He's going to make Patrick an offer he can't say no to, and he'll never have to walk away again.

***

The days start to blur together for Gerard. He's present and awake every moment he's in the cutting room, all his focus directed at whatever he and Bob are working on, but the rest of the time starts to slide into unremarkable repetitiveness. Eating and sleeping are merely fuel. The only times he really feels switched on when he's not at work are when he's talking to Brian, hanging onto his voice funneled through a cable to him.

He gets Mikey to install the Skype software on his laptop, feeding him some bullshit line about work related conference calls which they both know Mikey doesn't buy for a moment. Mikey does it anyway, because it's his job and he's the best little brother on the East Coast. When he shows Gerard how to launch the software and use it, Gerard's not surprised to find Brian's already on his contact list. Mikey doesn't even rib him about it, even though he has every right to.

It’s not like they have phone sex _all_ the time. Okay, so Gerard _does_ end up getting the hang of the Skype thing enough to jerk-off on camera for Brian on a semi-regular basis. And yes, it’s hotter than the hottest porn he's ever seen and he had no idea he had this narcissistic show-off mode, but Brian _really_ gets off on it. The intense expression he wears when he’s watching Gerard is so incinerating, Gerard's pretty sure it could result in hands-free orgasms if he channeled it right.

The hot sessions and phone calls are the punctuation to his film-focused existence. Something to look forward to and savor, when he can stop making decisions and just feel.

The director's cut screens well for the studio hacks, and there's barely a two day weekend of fleeting relief before the team shift gears. The next phase has them working through pages of creative notes from the executives which range in stupidity levels from "are you sure about that?" to "what the fuck?" The creative head of Universal wants to revoice Pogo, after being told more than once that the voice they had was a placeholder (ie. Spencer). The Vice President of Physical Production suggests the carnival "needs more explosions," like they could just shake them out of nowhere. This displays some exemplary selective memory given that he was the one who sliced the special effects budget in half in the first place.

The closest anyone comes to complimenting Bob on the editing is a cryptic note that the fight between Spaceboy and Kraken is "elegant" which just makes Bob thump the table and groan, "What the fuck does that even _mean_? It's a fight sequence! It's not supposed to be fucking elegant." He waves the offending paper at Gerard, "Is it _supposed_ to be insulting? Because it really is!" Gerard just reminds him that at least he doesn't have the Maddens breathing down his neck and hands him another Red Bull.

As the weeks leak away, Gerard's social life shrinks to the odd after-work gathering and the semi-frequent occasions when Mikey and Alicia drag him along to a gig or film. Because they're officially dating now, and Gerard learned the hard way not to peek over his brother's shoulder when he's texting her. Apparently they're kinky. He really didn't need to know that.

Brian's return to LA _conveniently_ coincides with their first audience screening. Of course conveniently, in this case, actually means not at all. Gerard is running on just three hours sleep after a late night at the sound mix when he picks Brian up from the airport. He should be dead on his feet, but he's absolutely wired and Brian is a sight for sore eyes, despite being both sleep-deprived and travel-rumpled.

Gerard drinks in every detail of his face, skin and body as Brian strides towards him at the arrivals gate, so much hotter in the flesh than the images on a grainy video screen. He stops in front of Gerard, arms folded across his chest, smirk pulling up his mouth at the side.

"You look like shit, Gee."

"Right back at you."

The words are barely out of his mouth before Brian grabs a handful of his shirt, mouth coming down hard over his, kissing him long and deep. Gerard's cheeks grow warm as his heartbeat multiplies, and he has to clench his hands to keep from groping. He's glad for the tide of passengers shuffling past them on all sides, a human barrier from prying eyes. Amongst all the bodies they're just another couple reuniting after a long separation.

The drive to Brian's apartment is an exercise in restraint and they barely get in the door before they're stuck together again, tearing at clothes and drowning in each other's mouths. They don't even make it to the bedroom; Brian does Gerard bent over the back of the couch, half their clothes still hanging off them. Brian's lips are warm on the back of Gerard's neck, his cock shoving home so deep it's almost painful after a hurried prep they were both too impatient for. It's an edge Gerard's happy to get off on, moaning out his appreciation as Brian's hand strokes his cock in time.

"Fuck Gee, do you any idea how much I've been thinking about this?" Brian's hand squeezes and twists as he grunts the words hot into his ear.

"Probably about as much as I have;" Gerard finishes the comment on a desperate moan. Brian's got an arm clutched across his chest and the whole couch is shifting with every thrust now. Gerard’s hair hangs in sweaty tendrils that slap against his face as they move; his grip on the back of the couch so tight his knuckles are white.

Brian doesn't tease, they're both too desperate; he fucks him hard and fast and keeps the stroke of his hand firm and quick. That, teamed with the push of Brian's cock inside him, tips Gerard over the edge fast. He chokes out a cry as orgasm swamps him, knees softening until Brian's the only thing holding him up, clutching him close, hips snapping forwards as he groans his own completion into Gerard's shoulder.

They sway, sweaty and sated, panting loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. Brian's mouth is warm on Gerard's shoulder, tracing a delicate pattern with his tongue until Gerard turns around and steals his mouth. They kiss, slow and messy until Gerard's heartbeat winds down. His hands find Brian's cheeks and he pulls back to look at him. He's tired, sure, but still gorgeous and the way he's looking at Gerard could get addictive.

Brian's fingers are gentle as he pushes Gerard's three-days-unwashed hair out of his face, with a soft, "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Gerard replies, voice raw. He brushes the pads of his fingers across Brian's damp lips as they stretch into a contagious smile. "Welcome home."

***

Pete spends a lot of time over the next weeks researching his 'hypothetical' production company. It starts with curiosity; a few google searches and fact-seeking phone calls lead to a few more and a few more. He's really just daring himself, searching for that one fact, that single problem that will prove this is beyond his reach. But the more he learns about the actual mechanics of establishing a company, the less out of reach it all seems.

Quotes and projections that he's fetched just to get an idea of cost find their way back into his hands so often the paper they're printed on gets soft and rumpled. Rough sketches of staffing structures and yearly budgets right down to smaller costs like rent and web presence get scribbled down in his notebook. It's a lot like budgeting a film, except the project isn't finite; instead of ending with release it'll go on, build, expand. At least, it will if he gets it right.

He spends a lot of time on the phone to Patrick, quizzing him on everything from good locations for premises, to how much he should pay his staff. Patrick puts up with the incessant questions with an amazing amount of patience, considering most of this stuff falls way outside his job description. But then, it's not Patrick's experience as a studio exec that gives him such awesome insights; it's that inherent logic of his, teamed with years of simply paying attention to the industry.

He's not afraid to tell Pete when he's over reaching, but he's also quick to push him when he needs to take things further.

It's impossible to pinpoint exactly when it stops being hypothetical musings and becomes a Plan, but it's probably around the time he drags Patrick across town to look at a commercial office space that's up for rent. His shoes echo off the floorboards as they walk around the empty rooms, Pete trailing after Patrick as he noses into every door and cupboard, turning the water on in the kitchenette and seeing how long it takes to get hot.

"What do you think?" Pete asks, eyes scanning the front room. "Pretty close to everything, studios, post houses, food."

"You know, you're not actually going to be spending that much time here," Patrick points out. It's hot as hell and stale in the offices from being shut up so long and Patrick's sweating, making his stiff button-up shirt cling in ways that are distracting. Pete presses his mind back to the business at hand. He's definitely not thinking about licking under the damp line of Patrick's collar.

"Sure, when I'm shooting. But it'll be great for pre-production. Not working from home will probably increase my productivity tenfold."

"Or you could just, you know, focus," Patrick teases. "Not everyone has to take breaks all the time."

"It's not my fault the internet's full of porn." Pete throws his hands up and Patrick shakes his head, a smile pulling at his lips.

"It's in a good spot, fittings seem alright, plumbing's fine, air-con works. Lick of paint and some furniture and you're set."

Patrick being Patrick, he turns the conversation carefully back to business and while Pete saw it coming, he's still disappointed. They've been being so careful. Ever since Gerard busted them, Pete's been holding himself in check and Patrick has too. This is the first time they've been alone together since the cupcake incident and for good reason it seems, given just how hard it is to keep himself out of Patrick's personal space.

Pete tunes back in to whatever Patrick's saying and finds him staring, one eyebrow quirked up like he's waiting for an answer to a question Pete didn't hear.

"Sorry?" Pete asks, forcing himself to focus. "What was that?"

"So you're really serious about this then?"

"As cancer," Pete decrees, hoisting his ass up to sit on the kitchen counter and nearly braining himself on the overhead cupboards. Patrick doesn't laugh at him, but his eyes do.

"Well then, you should get them to knock fifty bucks of the monthly rent and it would be about right." Patrick pulls a Kleenex out of his pocket and mops his face with it. "I'd better get back before I die of heat exhaustion, you need a ride?" Patrick offers, and Pete would really like to take him up on that, but he shakes his head.

"Brendon's swinging past on his way back from Kerplunk to get me, I'm good."

"See you around then," Patrick says with a small smile, taking steps towards the door but Pete catches him around the wrist and pulls him in for a completely workmate appropriate goodbye hug. Patrick makes an exasperated noise but he doesn't fight it. After a moment he even softens and leans into Pete's arms a little. Pete's not sure if that makes it better or worse given just how starved for Patrick contact he is.

It goes on longer than it probably should but Pete's not going to say anything if Patrick doesn't bring it up first. He doesn't, just shoots Pete a grin that twists his heart and slips out the front door. Pete watches through the wide front windows until Patrick turns a corner and he can't see him anymore.

Soon, he reminds himself. Soon.

The final lap he does of the offices is more a formality than a check-over; he's already made up his mind. He scribbles down the property details into his notebook, pulls out his phone and calls the real estate agent to get them to knock fifty off the price on his lease.

***

The preview screenings do a good job of hijacking any kind of life outside of the film Gerard might have hoped to have now that Brian is back in LA. Hours vanish from his days as days vanish from his calendar, sucked into the void of the edit suite and mix rooms, like every buzzing computer monitor is leeching away time.

His whole life revolves around test scores and notes from the audience screenings and focus groups. He sits on Bob's couch trying to find some semblance of meaning in the endless piles of survey cards scrawled by strangers who probably didn't even spend five minutes writing their thoughts down. On top of that, there's the bottomless supply of studio notes as the hacks at Universal attempt to come up with some new way to market the film for maximum profit, even if it means making a trailer for a different movie, or telling Gerard to create something that just isn't there.

It's exhausting, frustrating, and easily his least favorite part of filmmaking. When a note comes from Meyer's office that they want to try to change the ending to make it more "optimistic" he nearly throws his laptop across the room. He thumps the couch instead, scattering markers and pens across the floor.

Bob skates his chair backwards, not even turning around. He takes Gerard's crumpled pack of Marlboro's off the coffee table and hands them to him without even saying a word.

Bob's right of course, which is no surprise. It's definitely time for a break.

He abandons the scattered survey cards and redundant notes for the smoking area, his movements sharp with annoyance as he lights up. His fist closes around the phone in his pocket and he pulls it out, scrolling through his contacts for Brian's number. Before he's even registered what he's doing his thumb is hovering over the send key.

It's so tempting to just call. He's desperate to hear Brian's voice, pull it around him like a comfortable blanket. His thumb twitches over the button, but he's got nothing but bile to spew, hate for the studio and for stupid audiences who don't know what they want. He digs around for something safe and not work-related to talk about, but he can't find anything. His whole life is the film right now which means everything is tainted with the stink of his work-crazy. He can't dump that on Brian. No way.

The noise he makes is somewhere between an angry hiss and a resigned sigh as he puts his phone away. He smokes his way furiously through three more cigarettes before he feels ready to face the suite again.

***

If he was shooting the next two weeks as a montage it would be in fast motion, all his movements a blur, only slowing to a crawl when he pulls out his phone and hovers his thumb over Brian's number. He longs to press send, but he doesn't. Brian's calls go to his message bank and he listens to them over and over, counting down the days until the last preview screening is wrapped up, when he might have something to say.

He knows it isn't the way it's supposed to work, but he doesn't know how to fix it and he never has the brain space to figure it out. He keeps waiting, thinking any day now it'll come to him, but it just keeps getting harder and harder, to the point where he knows it's been too long from the cooling tone of Brian's voice in his messages and the longer gaps between them.

An entire week passes in a blur of pixelated images, sound cues and VFX signoffs, and Gerard doesn't hear from Brian once. Not until the end of the week when he gets a single text message that nearly stops his heart.

_your turn_

He dumps a mess of notes on Bob and finishes work early, heading straight to Brian's, hoping it's not already too late. Brian lets him in, which is probably more than he deserves, but Gerard takes it anyway, crossing the threshold to fidget in Brian's living room.

"So, you gonna fill me in?" Brian asks, after Gerard hasn't managed to make any words for at least thirty seconds. "Because if we're breaking up it would be nice if you told me." He folds his arms across his chest and regards Gerard, his entire demeanor icy.

"Brian, I-" Gerard doesn't get the words out, because after a week of radio silence, Brian's feeling talkative now. He skirts past Gerard and drops into an armchair, not the couch, which means Gerard can't sit beside him.

"Did I miss something? Because, two weeks. That's a while." The only chink in the illusion of Brian's calm is the way his foot is tapping out a staccato beat on the carpet, a lot like it was at that first meeting they had for _Umbrella Academy_. Gerard feels a bit breathless at the memory when he realizes just how far they've come since then. But the way Brian's looking at him right now, it doesn't feel that far at all.

He drops onto the couch opposite Brian, dragging his gaze up from Brian's bouncing foot to his assessing expression.

"Fuck, Brian, I'm sorry." The words tumble out before Gerard's really formed them, but it's all truth so he lets them come, hoping he can still fix this. He palms his hair into a mess, trying to find a reason. "It's just the film is kind of eating me alive right now and... and I don't wanna lay that crazy all over you."

Brian's foot stops tapping and starts circling instead. "That's fucking weak and you know it."

"I know, I'm sorry, fuck." Gerard rocks forwards, leaning on his knees in a desperate effort to close the distance between them. "I guess, I was trying to keep the crazy away, but that just meant I was keeping _me_ away, you know?"

Brian doesn't deny it, but he doesn't agree either. He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead like the whole thing's one big headache. "I thought you wanted something real. I mean, all that phone shit, I thought we were past this being just a set thing."

"It's not just a set thing," Gerard leaps in.

"Yeah, I could tell by the way you ignored me for two weeks." The words come out in a rush before Brian stops himself, lip curling in distaste as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fuck. Gerard. I don't want this shit. I don't want to be the fucking other woman to your goddamn film." He pushes to his feet, pacing and Gerard springs up after him, feet hesitating on the carpet as he watches the tense line of Brian's back.

"It's not like that. It isn't." An edge of desperation creeps into Gerard's voice. Brian turns to look at him, and the doubt on his face sends Gerard reeling back like a physical shove.

"You know, I haven't even seen your office. And I know sweet fuck all about what you're doing there. Shit, there's probably a fourteen year old kid who's been to one of your previews that knows more about where you're at than I do." It's not until the words are out of Brian's mouth that Gerard realizes it's true. It's a sinking thought. Brian rubs the back of his neck, his mouth pulling to the side in a mirthless smile. "You know, I thought it might change, but it's actually getting worse." He rocks back on his heels and settles, folding his arms and meeting Gerard's eyes. "I don't want this. I don't want to be the afterthought."

"No, fuck, it's not like that, Brian please. I'm not good at this and I'm fucking it up." The words spew out of Gerard's mouth and it's a physical effort not to reach out to Brian and grab him.

Brian doesn't give an inch. "You really are."

Okay, he deserved that one, but it still hurts. Gerard takes a deep breath, one hand still tangled up in his hair and tugging on it. "I've only done this once before and it was such a fucking disaster. I opened up everything and he just, took it all. And he didn't even want me." He thumps his chest for emphasis, eyes imploring. "Me, you know? He just wanted everything else." Gerard can't even stand to look at Brian, because fuck, this is so much worse than it was with Bert. He tried this time, he tried so hard to stop it from getting to this.

Gerard feels like he's spilling his guts out on the floor and Brian hasn't even moved.

"That's not me, Gerard." Brian scrapes a hand through his hair, his frustration leaking out through the motion. "I don't want a piece of your fucking career, I have mine, thanks. I don't need an 'in' from you. I'm not asking to run your goddamn show, but I'd like to think you'd put my name on the door to fucking see it."

"Brian." The name sounds so desperate to his own ears. Gerard's hand shoots out to touch Brian's shoulder, but he shrugs away.

"No. I think you should go." Brian's voice is tight and stripped of emotion; something inside Gerard breaks at the sound. He opens his mouth to speak without even thinking.

"Brian, I love you." It's the first time he's said it. He's thought it, so many times; he's stopped himself from saying it a lot of times, too. He knows this isn’t the right time to pull it out, but it's the only thing he has in his arsenal and he's desperate.

It doesn't work the way he wants it to. Brian doesn't fall into his arms, if anything his face gets harder, his mouth twitching angrily. "Don't you say that. Don't you fucking say that if you're not gonna back it up." He spits the words like they're leaving a bad taste in his mouth and that's it, Gerard's out of ammo.

He's got nothing left to say, so he grabs Brian's face in his hands and kisses him. If he can't tell him, he'll show him. Sex is so much easier than all this other stuff. He can give up everything, lay himself bare and let it all flow out unchecked. He pushes everything he can't say into the kiss, offering it to Brian with lips and tongue and Brian lets him, at least at first. He ravishes Gerard's mouth, teeth scraping his lips, tongue driving inside, but the hard hand he keeps on Gerard's shoulder holds them apart. When Gerard tries to get closer, Brian's grip gets firmer until he's pushing him away.

"You should go," is all he says, only his wet lips and the rawness of his voice betrays him.

"Brian-"

"I want you to leave. Now." Brian says it hard. No arguments. Gerard just stands there for a moment, panting softly and watching Brian's face for any sign that he might change his mind. He doesn't.

In the end he doesn’t leave because he’s told to, or asked to. He leaves because he can’t stand having Brian look at him like that for one moment longer. The door closing behind him sounds too much like an ending, a fucking bad ending that needs a goddamn rewrite.

Night finds him lying in his too big, too empty bed, not sleeping. Instead, he runs the whole conversation through his head over and over, from every angle, like it’s a scene he’s going to shoot. Except if that were the case he’d have some control over how it turned out, and maybe he could actually write in some dialogue so it doesn’t keep ending on a big close up of Brian’s face looking hard and disappointed.

This isn't something he can fix with a rewrite or a reshoot. He can't even fix it in post with an offscreen line or a new visual effects shot. This needs to be something real, something big... but he has no idea what.

He really does suck at this.

***

Pete’s in serious overdrive. Every moment Gerard doesn’t need him on the film, he’s on the phone, waiting on hold with banks, talking hard at potential financiers or whispering sweet temptations to the smart up-and-comers he wants to employ.

Ryan’s a given, he goes where Pete goes, and Mark Hoppus didn’t need a lot of convincing. He’d be tempted to try and take Mikey if he thought Gerard would let him. Perhaps if he offered him a junior producer position and asked very, very nicely. Mikey could always train up Brendon as his replacement, and Gerard wouldn't want to hold his little brother back from the next step up in his career. He adds it to his ever-growing list of things to do.

He won't be bringing it up with Gerard today though; the director in one of his rare ill moods and Pete knows better than to pitch a challenging idea to someone who's all riled up like a junkyard dog. He's laying low today, poring over _The Black Parade_ script with his highlighter and pencil, making detailed notes about everything from potential shooting locations to ideas for key crew.

It's a good script. Such a _fucking_ good script and it deserves the best of everything - crew, locations and a fair, decent budget. He's desperate to put the script in front of Patrick, if for no other reason than the weight it would add to his offer when he makes it. On the red carpet at the premiere, because Pete is damned if he's going to do this by halves. He's never wanted anything more.

His phone chimes and he answers, marking the script page with his finger. He's hoping for Patrick's voice but he gets Gabe Saporta's casual greeting instead.

"Tell me good news, man."

"Well if you want _good_ news... I got laid last night." Pete can hear the grin on Gabe's mouth as he says it and he fights the urge to cringe.

"Gabe, really? Scarred for life now. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Gabe chuckles. "I'm here for you, man." Gabe's a good person to know, because he knows everyone and he has a knack of getting favors out of people without generally having to give favors in return.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Now give me the goods. Can I afford him?" Pete asks, feeling nervous. Gabe's been doing some sniffing around the ranks of Universal on Pete's behalf, through friends of friends and lovers and fuck buddies, because Pete needs to know how much the studio is paying Patrick. He knows he'll never be able to match it, but he needs to know just how ludicrous the amount he's allotted in his budget for Patrick's salary will be.

"No fucking way," Gabe says on a laugh.

"Way to break it to me gently, Saporta."

"Dude, Tom fucking loves this guy; he thinks he's the bees goddamn knees. He'd be earning six figures, man."

Pete swears softly, drumming his fingers on the table.

"What's so special about this dude anyway? Why do you need him so bad?" Gabe digs, looking for his angle as always.

"Gabe… I could explain it to you, but you'd still have no idea," Pete sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Okay, so it's a bit more of a mountain to climb than he thought. But he's not giving up. Not yet, anyway.

***

Gerard’s self aware enough to know he’s in a shitty mood. Apparently he loses all ability to function as a polite human being when he’s heartsick. He grumps at Bob, he snarks at Pete and he even snaps at Mikey, which is clearly alien behavior because he _never_ snaps at Mikey.

An invisible barbed wire fence gets strung across his office door. If his aim was to be left alone, he gets it in spades. Bob’s suddenly got a whole bunch of "boring sound work" to do, which he insists Gerard doesn’t want to be in the room for. Pete has a convenient conference call and Mikey just vanishes mysteriously, as only he can.

Gerard stares at his pile of backlogged paperwork, eyes gritty from lack of sleep, wondering how the hell to fix this without divine intervention or time travel. He’s startled out of his thought-track by the voice of someone who clearly has no fear of invisible barbed wire.

"You know Geeway, there’s this thing called sleep. You should try it sometime. I hear it’s awesome."

Gerard drags his gaze up from the pile of reports to find his doorway graced by the not-very-large presence of one Frank Iero, his arms loaded down with poster tubes and stinking of recently smoked cigarettes.

He barely manages a weak smile before Frank barrels in the door, dumping the poster tubes onto a table and starting to pop them open. "Pete said I should reschedule, but I already hauled ass all the way into town. You’re not gonna make me have sat through all that traffic bullshit for nothing, right?" He glances over his shoulder for a confirmation Gerard doesn't give before starting to shake a poster loose from the tube. Gerard completely forgot they had a meeting; Mikey would’ve reminded him if Gerard hadn’t, you know, made him magically disappear by being an asshole.

He’s about to warn Frank that Pete was probably right and he’s not going to get anything useful out of Gerard right now when the poster Frank’s unrolling flops out flat and Kraken glares at him from the glossy paper. Gerard’s on his feet before he’s even aware of it, walking closer to study the design. It’s still rough around the edges and he already wants font and color changes but the design is striking.

"Frank it’s great, it’s really going where I want it to. I mean I want it darker and the font sucks, but this is the kind of thing I was thinking of." When Gerard tears his eyes away from the poster long enough to meet Frank’s, the grin he gets from him is knowing.

"Good." Frank shakes another poster loose, and another one, sticking them up on Gerard’s walls with tape; covering phone lists, charts and old sketches, until all nine are displayed across the office. There’s individual character posters for each of the main protagonists: Spaceboy, Kraken, Rumor, Séance, The Boy, The White Violin, Professor Reginald Hargreeves and Pogo, plus the main movie poster which features all the Academy members in both their younger and older incarnations, with the Eiffel Tower slicing up through the center of frame.

The proofs are still very much a work in progress, but the concept is really working. Looking at the art on the walls, Gerard finally has that stomach clenching moment where he realizes that the film isn’t always going to be his, safely held in his hands as he tweaks and massages it. At some point he’s going to have to give it up to the world and let them take it. Love it, hate it, laugh at it or tear it apart, but he’s going to have to let go of it soon.

So he better make sure it’s damn good first.

"Still with me?" Frank asks, startling Gerard out of his head.

"Yeah. Yeah Frank, they’re really fucking good. I only have a few notes."

A ‘few notes’ in Gerard language has them talking for the next hour or so, Frank scrawling notes in a battered moleskin diary as Gerard unloads his brain at him. By the time they’ve been through all nine posters Gerard’s throat is dry and he’s desperate for a cigarette.

Frank starts to pull one of the posters off the wall but thinks better of it. "You want me to leave them up? I have my own copies."

"Yeah, that’d be great." He doesn’t really need to see all the other crap underneath them and a reminder of how fucking kick-ass the movie is going to be is always a good thing.

He’s thinking it’s time for that cigarette when Frank shoves one last piece of card in his hands with a casual, "Almost forgot."

It’s a smaller version of the main movie poster with the faces and the Eiffel Tower, except Frank’s moved the elements around to make room for more text in the centre. A few words in Gerard realizes what it is; it’s a mockup of an invitation to the Red Carpet Premiere. Frank being Frank, he's used Gerard’s name for the example text so it reads "Gerard Way plus one".

Gerard stares at the text, gripping the invitation so hard his hand shakes. Finally, _finally_ , it clicks.

"Plus one," he mutters, wrapping his mouth around the words.

"I know you’re supposed to say ‘and guest’ but it sounds so pretentious. And it’s a gig thing," Frank rambles, glancing at him for a reaction but Gerard’s not seeing it. His heartbeat’s multiplied and it feels like it's going to beat right out of his chest.

"I have to go." His feet are already twitching in his shoes, blood racing through him. "I have to… do something," he stammers, already halfway out the door.

He barely hears Frank’s "Ummm… okay?" because he’s speeding down the hallway, shouting to Pete he’ll be back later. He needs to get to Brian. Now.

It’s not entirely obvious how he manages to make it to Brian’s apartment so quickly, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to go back and analyze his driving. He parks worse than Mikey and scampers up the stairs, knocking on the door so hard his knuckles hurt, hoping like hell Brian’s there.

He’s still breathless from all the running and climbing, his deathgrip on the door frame the only thing keeping him upright, when Brian opens it. The way he looks would knock the breath out of Gerard if he wasn’t already panting with effort; fuck he’s out of shape. Brian’s unshaven, wearing a worn wifebeater and jeans that are so destroyed there’s barely enough left of them to quality for the name. His hair is fuzzy like he hasn’t put any product in it yet and Gerard knows how soft it would feel if he put his hand through it. The whole picture is about as casual as you can get but to Gerard’s eye he looks amazing.

A flicker of _something_ passes across Brian’s face before he fixes his expression to blank.

The guardedness sticks in Gerard's side but he digs deep and reminds himself why he’s here.

"I want you to be my plus one." He’s still breathless, but the words come out strong.

"Sorry?" The blank mask slips and Brian just looks confused.

Gerard’s still struggling for breath; Jesus he needs to cut down on the cigarettes already. He waves the invitation as he repeats himself, trying to put the meaning into the words. "I want you to be my plus one."

Brian notices the flapping card and takes it, studying the invite. "For the Premiere?"

"No. Yes!" Gerard shakes his head, trying to get it straight. He hasn't really processed it as much as he'd like; he's flying straight from the gut here. "Not just for the premiere. For everything. Brian I…" He looks up and realizes he's still on the doorstep and Brian's still not quite getting it. "I'm probably going to ramble for a bit, can I?" He gestures a hand towards _inside_ and Brian steps back, letting him come in. The door slams closed and Gerard scrambles to find the thread of what he was saying.

"I know I fucked this up. I know that. But I think I finally figured it out and if you can stand it, like, if you can bear the idea of letting me try again I promise, I won't keep you out of the work stuff. I mean, I felt like I had to, like I had to keep it all separate, have like, boundaries, because…" Gerard glances up from his hands which somehow have commanded his view since he got inside and Brian's looking at him levelly.

"Keep going." His voice betrays nothing, but it gives Gerard the push to continue.

"I had… a thing with one of the AD's on _Revenge_. It was bad, like, it ended really badly, because there were no boundaries and he just… well he just wanted to be in on everything, like us being together gave him that right and it all went down the tubes because I couldn't. I couldn't give him that. And in the end it was all he wanted; he just wanted to put my name on a project he was trying to get up, you know, and the sex and everything else was just a way to get it." Gerard's hands have fisted unconsciously, fingernails digging into his palms. Even after all the years it's still hard to talk about. "It all went down about the time we brought you on, actually, to-"

"Rig the fucking car?" Brian poses the question in a monotone.

"Yeah, right." Gerard can feel heat blooming in his cheeks at the memory of his infamous tantrum. "I was such a shit to you, I know. God, I was just, I was still so raw from the thing with Bert and I was _so_ fucking attracted to you and I just. I couldn't, you know? I had to fight it somehow."

"By being an asshole? What are you twelve?" Brian's mouth isn't giving anything away but there's a smile in his eyes.

"Yeah well, I've never claimed to be a grown up." Gerard's mouth pulls up at the side in a wry grin. He dares to let himself feel hopeful, because Brian isn't looking angry anymore.

Brian waves the invite at him with a questioning expression, reminding him he's wandered off topic.

"Oh right, plus one. I mean, I just saw it on the page and something clicked, you know? I've been such an idiot about the whole thing. It's so fucking obvious now. You don't have to be in on everything I do, just like I don’t want to be all over your stunt crap. Your stuff is your stuff and mine is mine, but like, that doesn't mean we can't still share it with each other. Like you can be my plus one for this premiere, and I can be yours for your Prague gig and… you know, it'll work?" Gerard's voice peaks up on the last sentence, straining with hopefulness. He closes the few steps between them, spearing the invitation between his fingers and holding it up. "You can be my plus one."

Brian draws in a breath and Gerard's heart nearly stops. He's looking so hard for any sign of what's going through Brian's mind he almost misses the words when they come.

"Gerard. That's pretty much exactly what I said to you yesterday."

"Yeah but, I just, I guess I needed to see it. I'm a visual person, you know?"

Brian shakes his head like Gerard's not all there, but that's a real smile Gerard can see pulling at the side of his mouth, so he pushes his advantage. "And I'll get Mikey to put your name on the security gate so you can come and go whenever you want and you can like, come and have lunch with us if you like even though it's really boring and we basically just sit in Bob's room and eat ramen and half the time he and Ryan sneak off to make out. Oh and you can come and sit in on the mix too if you're keen, those guys over at Kerplunk Sound are fucking mental it's pretty-"

"Gerard." Brian cuts him off.

"What?"

"Shut up." The shock of the order doesn't even register before Brian's mouth is covering his and oh yes, that's what he's been missing. He melts into the kiss wondering how he could have been so stupid to pass _this_ up for so long. Brian's arms fold tight around him, hauling him close and Gerard's lost; he can only fold into Brian and kiss him back with everything he's got.

Brian's hands slide up under Gerard's shirt, the urgency in his movements showing Gerard he's not the only one who's been waiting. They struggle against each other until the frustration of being clothed is too much to bear. Gerard tugs on Brian's wifebeater until he tears his mouth from Gerard's long enough to strip it off. Gerard follows suit, tearing off his shirt and pressing back into Brian, skin on skin, panting from the sensation.

He gets a hand down the back of Brian's pants, palming his ass and Brian grinds onto him. Fuck, they need to be naked _right now_. Brian totally gets it, because he pushes Gerard onto his back on the couch and starts unbuckling Gerard's belt. Gerard reaches for the button on Brian's jeans to return the favor, but Brian finds his dick first, stroking it firmly through his underwear and all Gerard can do is groan and turn liquid under his hands.

"Fuck. Fuck me," he pants, hips arching up off the couch into Brian's hand.

Brian hums and licks a stripe up Gerard's neck. "Actually, I was thinking now that we're going steady, you could fuck _me_."

The words are hot against Gerard's cheek and he has to grab Brian's wrist and still his hand or he's gonna lose it and this will all be over way too fast. He grits his teeth and hangs on, fingers tight on Brian's shoulders until he finds enough brain cells to make words.

"Yeah. Fuck yeah, Brian. We should do that," Gerard grits out before taking Brian's mouth again and kissing him, thrusting his tongue inside, fingers tight in his hair. Now _this_ is a fucking plan.

He breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, "Bedroom?" getting a nod from Brian and the most wicked smile. He wriggles out of his jeans because if he doesn't he's gonna fall on his ass before they even get there. Brian hooks a finger under the waistband of Gerard's underwear, pulling it down and Gerard takes the hint and shoves them off too. Then he's naked in Brian's living room, Brian's hot gaze trailing across his pale skin, lingering on the rude jut of his cock and making him prickle and sweat.

Gerard knows that look, it's the same hungry stare Brian gets when he jerks off for him on camera, except he's standing right in front of him and that's so much fucking better. He pounces on Gerard, kissing him hard and the press of denim on his over-sensitized dick is too much. They almost don't make it to the bedroom. Gerard has to hold tight to the thought of getting inside Brian, giving him the push he needs to pull his lips off Brian's long enough for them to stumble through the door.

When they get there Brian makes short work of his own jeans while Gerard scrabbles in the beside drawer for lube and condoms. They nearly fall out of his hands when he turns around to see Brian bare-assed and bent over, disentangling one foot from his messy jeans. Gerard puts the supplies carefully on the bed and slides up behind Brian, running his hand down his back from neck to ass, memorizing every muscle and curve under the heated skin. Brian straightens up and wraps an arm around him, pulling Gerard close, chest to back, his dick trapped between their bodies. His breath comes out in a hiss and he kisses along Brian's shoulder blade, up to the back of his neck, tracing his tongue over the _unloveable_ tattoo.

"False advertising," he smirks, but the smile falls from his lips when Brian shoves his hips backwards, rubbing his ass on Gerard's cock.

"Shut up and fuck me." Brian's voice is pure sex and Gerard has to tighten his grip on Brian's arms for a moment or else he's gonna fall over.

"C'mon. Bed," is about all the words he can manage; thankfully Brian is feeling co-operative and he tumbles forwards onto the bed and crawls up until he's face down in the middle. Gerard grabs the lube and joins him, leaning his body over Brian's, running hands and tongue down his spine, tasting salt and sweat on his warm skin.

He's just about to fumble the bottle open when Brian groans impatiently, "Come on, fuck."

"God, bossy much?" Gerard retorts, relieved when the bottle top pops and he can get his fingers slippery. He arches over Brian, resting his forehead on Brian's back as his fingers stroke up the crease of his ass. Brian makes a low grunt and presses back into Gerard's hand, encouraging, so Gerard straightens out a finger and slips it inside. Fuck, so warm, hot and tight his dick clenches, he's so fucking ready to be in there.

Brian shifts again, arching his back and demanding, "More. Fuck Gee, come on." Gerard grins into Brian's back, slipping his finger out and pressing back in with two, making Brian groan into the mattress.

He licks up Brian's back as Brian shoves down on his hand, trailing his tongue up over his shoulder to suck on his neck. Up close he can see every bead of sweat on Brian's upper lip and when he leans in to lick it off, Brian turns his head to meet his mouth for a messy kiss. He breaks it with a groan when Gerard twists his fingers inside him.

"Want three?" Gerard asks, smirking. He's having way too much fun with this.

"I want your fucking dick. Hurry up." Brian's voice is deep and gravelly and it goes straight to Gerard's cock. He swallows a breath and adds a third finger, more than ready for the next part. Brian's brow furrows and he bites his lip, rolling his head to the side. His body is writhing under Gerard's, sliding against him deliciously, so when Brian catches Gerard's hand at the wrist saying "Now. Come on." Gerard goes with it, slips his fingers free and snatches for a condom, moving as fast as his clumsy hands will allow.

He kneels up behind Brian, gripping his hip and lining up. It's a fucking hot sight, the curve of Brian's back, all that skin, round cheeks of his ass framing Gerard's sheathed dick, but he doesn't stop to admire it. He leans his body down over Brian's until he's crushed against his back, the tip of his dick pressing at Brian's opening and that's about the time when Brian's patience expires. He pushes back against Gerard, sinking himself onto his cock and Gerard can't do anything but push forwards, throaty groan spilling from his lips as he presses home. So hot. So fucking tight.

Brian moans, long and deep and Gerard can feel it vibrate right through him. He reaches around to find Brian's dick, hot and leaking, and he firms his fingers around it. He strokes it as he slides his cock out and pushes it back in again. Fuck, he's not gonna last, it feels too good. He groans into Brian's neck and moves again, finding a slow rhythm, every thrust pulling a moan from Brian that turns him inside out.

He pants out hot breaths into Brian's neck, reveling in the slick slide of skin against his body with every motion, Brian's cock pulsing in his hand.

"Fuck, faster. Come on, fuck." Brian twists his head when he makes the demand and Gerard can see the effort it takes him. He does as he's told because he wants it too; shoving his hips forwards with more force and the panting groan he gets in response is like music. Brian's movements are unchecked and he's so unselfconscious, fucking himself back on Gerard's cock. It feels amazing. Gerard doesn't hold back; he lets his hips pound forwards until he can feel Brian shaking under him, tightening around him, throbbing in his hand.

It nearly undoes him, but he keeps pushing on, wanting to feel it when it hits Brian, knowing he won't be far behind. Brian lets out a deep groan as his body tenses beneath Gerard's and that's it, Gerard speeds his thrusts, stroking Brian faster until he feels him come apart, cock pulsing and releasing as he bucks under Gerard. His ass clenches around Gerard's cock and it dislodges his brain. He lets out a keening whine as his hips push home over and over, pulling out his orgasm until it shatters through him, groaning into Brian's shoulder as he shoots inside him.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ ," he mutters, going boneless and collapsing onto Brian's heaving body.

"Yeah," Brian agrees, the words smushed into the mattress.

Gerard lets himself melt into Brian for a long moment, matching his breathing to the rise and fall of Brian's back. When he feels sleep tugging at his consciousness he shakes it off, forcing himself up and off. He ditches the condom and lets Brian pull him back onto the bed, pressing up hot against Gerard's back and coiling his arms around his chest.

He presses a kiss behind Gerard's ear, warm breath tickling. "Never make me wait that long again." His voice is gruff and it reverberates right up Gerard's spine. Gerard wiggles around, flipping over to face Brian and take his mouth in a messy kiss.

He finishes with a swipe of tongue and a smile. "Not ever." It's a promise, not just to Brian but also to himself.

"Good," Brian agrees, and kisses Gerard again, long and lazy until Gerard's melting into the bed. His hands slide up into Brian's hair as he teases Gerard with his tongue, their legs scissoring into a delicious tangle.

Brian breaks the kiss, sucking hard on Gerard's lower lip before pulling back to rub his thumb over it, wet and plump. His eyes dance over Gerard's face, like he's memorizing every detail and it makes Gerard's heart stick in his chest.

"Do you have to get back?"

Gerard considers it. Technically he should, there's probably a squillion things Mikey's got for him to do, but then Mikey _did_ abandon him. "Nah, I'm in no hurry. They can wait. Bob banned me from his room anyway, and Mikey's hiding from me."

"You have another one of your famous tantrums?" Brian grins, one eyebrow arched and fuck, it is _so_ on.

"Fuck you!" Gerard's indignant squeal is somewhat ruined by his giant grin. "One time. _One_ motherfucking time and I will never live it down." Gerard grabs Brian's wrists and tries to wrestle him onto his back in an insane attempt at forcing him into submission. He's no match at all for Brian, who counters by flipping him onto his back, pinning him hard in about two seconds flat. He's not even breathing heavy. Gerard would be impressed if he wasn't so annoyed... and, if he's honest, more than a little turned on.

Brian's body is heavy on his, crushing him into the bed. Gerard struggles, trying to arch up and throw him off but all that does is rub his body up on Brian's, which is more than a little distracting.

"Let me up," he whines, trying to shake Brian's hands off, but there's no dice; his grip is like steel.

"Say it." Brian grins down at him, completely immoveable. He swoops down for a kiss, lightning fast and Gerard doesn't even have time to react. He locks his eyes on Gerard's and grins, challenge written all over him. "Jesus. Fucking. Christ," he starts, trailing off the last word with a knowing look and Gerard knows the next part already. He rolls his eyes and sighs, but Brian's not letting up, not giving even half an inch.

"Brian," he warns, but there's no kick in it; he's fighting a grin and all his struggling is just rubbing him up against Brian all warm, naked and freshly fucked. Getting annoyed at this point is probably beyond him.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." Brian says again, voice almost sing-song in its taunting and it's too late, Gerard's lost it; he giggles out the rejoinder with no conviction whatsoever.

"Just rig the damn car already!"

Brian smile is smug as his hands relax their grip, but Gerard doesn't even bother taking advantage of the opportunity to get away because Brian's kissing him, and kissing back is way more fun than struggling. Brian strokes his tongue into Gerard's mouth and he moans around it. The heat starts to build between them again and Gerard thinks he might already be up for round two. He palms a hand through Brian's hair, skating his fingers down his cheek and over the curve of his sideburns. It's pretty mind-blowing to think that he can have this whenever he wants now, that he doesn't have to ration it, or try to exist on a diluted version where he can see but not touch. Brian's right here and he's not going anywhere anytime soon. Gerard plans to make the most of that.

"Gee," Brian breaks the kiss, smirking a little with lips swollen from kissing. "You know, you and I are _done_ professionally." It's the worst Christian Bale impression _ever_ and Gerard can't help but laugh, smothering his snorts into Brian's neck and clinging onto his back.

Because really, as long as they're not done personally, Gerard's totally fine with that.

***

It nearly kills Pete to wait until the premiere to invite Patrick into the Decaydance family. Still, he toughs it out because he believes in big gestures and besides, by the time all the pieces have fallen into place and he can say that what he has is an honest-to-god real functioning company, it's only an extra two weeks to wait. Of course, those two weeks pass slower than ooze.

He doesn't have loads of time to dwell on it; with the premiere bearing down on them there's press junkets to arrange, publicity copy to sign off on, interviews to drag Gerard and the cast kicking and screaming to, not to mention the smaller cast and crew screenings for the Australian contingent. And most important of all, the task of selecting his outfit for the Premiere.

Despite the dwindling amount of Pete-time in this breakneck schedule, he still manages to find a few minutes a day to talk to Patrick. Patrick would call it bothering, not talking, but he still picks up the phone every time.

"Hello Pete." He greets Pete by name, even though Pete's calling from the work line which he knows doesn't show up on caller ID.

"So Trick, I'm thinking red napkins for the pre-show cocktails, and white ones for the after-schmooze. What do you reckon?"

"If you've already decided, why are you calling?"

"I value your opinion Trick, you know that." Pete curls the phone cable around his finger. He probably should have come up with a better excuse to call but he's had weaker than this and Patrick hasn't hung up on him yet.

"Do you always turn into Bridezilla before your Premieres? And Pete, it's napkins. Really?"

"Hey, Gerard's hogging all the really fun creative choices for the event, I gotta make do with what crumbs he throws me."

"Fine. White's classic. Red's modern, but make sure you don't get the cheap ones that stain when they're wet."

"You see, Patrick, you see? This is why I need you."

"Well, good thing for you I'm only a phone call away. You got carpal tunnel from dialing my number yet?"

"Course not. I have you on speed dial," Pete snorts.

"Is that all? You know I do have some actual work to do." Patrick's got his best annoyed voice on, but it doesn't hold that much kick for Pete these days.

"You love it." Pete smiles around the words, knowing Patrick will hear it. He pulls his hand free from the cord-trap and steels himself to sound as casual as possible for the next part. "Oh, and one other thing. I'm giving you a ride to the Premiere."

"Are you?" There is a definite note of surprise in Patrick's response.

"Yeah, and your date too, if you have one."

"Who the hell would I be taking that isn't going anyway?" It's unusual for Patrick to be quite so openly pouty.

"Your mom?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"No! I didn't mean it that way. God you're so sensitive," Pete scrambles, palming his face. _Way to go, Wentz, you're a real charmer._ " I'll pick you up at six okay?"

"Pete-"

"No buts. And you should wear your Fedora. It's hot. Six o' clock." He hangs up before Patrick has any more time to argue, staring at the phone with his hand still on the receiver for a full minute while his heart slows down.

Ryan interrupts any plans he might have of whining or squealing with glee by bursting into the room in a cloud of unimpressed emo, loaded down with a variety of hats.

"This is incredibly demeaning, and so completely not my job," he states with a dramatic head toss and dumps an array of fedoras in an assortment of colors onto Pete's desk without ceremony. Pete doesn't even bother calling him out on it, because he doesn't want a repeat of the Great Dry Cleaning Collection Tantrum of 2005. Pete's not sure what he did wrong to end up with the only PA in the film industry who acts like they're being ethically raped on the _very_ rare occasion that Pete needs him to do something personal and not directly work-related. Ryan's just lucky he's good at every other aspect of his position. Being cute and leggy doesn't hurt either.

Pete digs through the pile, trying on hat after hat and checking his reflection in the dark screen of his computer monitor.

"What do you think?" he asks for the third time, on the fifth hat. Ryan makes yet another non-committal noise, deeply focused on the screen of his iPhone. Pete balls up one of his fax coversheets and throws it Ryan's head.

"Hey, stop sending slutty texts to our esteemed editor and give me your damn opinion. Black, grey or green?" he asks, pretty pleased with how quickly he manages to switch between the three hats.

"Black," Ryan answers without missing a beat, his upward glance so quick you couldn't time it.

"But Patrick's is black; I don't want us to look too… matchy-matchy." Pete stares at his barely visible reflection in the dark monitor, tilting his head from side to side.

Ryan makes a noise that would usually be a pre-cursor to vomiting and leaves the room muttering,"I think the photo-copier is out of paper."

The photo-copier line is usually code for _I'm going to see if Bob has time to make out in the disabled toilet._ Pete discovered this entirely by accident.

Pete sighs and puts the black and grey fedoras to one side, stacking all the other rejected contenders on Ryan's desk with no small amount of righteous indignation.

He ferrets around in his bottom desk drawer, pulling out two small white cardboard boxes and depositing them on his desk with care. He slides the first box open, pulling out one of his brand spanking new business cards, matte laminated, with the Decaydance Films logo splashed across one side. The other side is stylishly sparse, the words _Pete Wentz, Producer_ in the centre and his phone and email tucked into the corners. They turned out really, really well. Which is great, because he bought a run of a thousand to keep the per-card cost down. He's all about smart budgeting now that he has his own production company.

His own production company. He takes a moment to roll that thought around in his mind before he reaches for the second box. He only ordered a run of 500 of these. Just in case. Because there's optimism and then there's blind optimism. And there's not much you can do with 999 unwanted business cards. 999, not 1000 because he's putting one in his wallet right now, for keeps.

The Decaydance side is the same, but when he flips the card over, Patrick's name sits in the centre instead of his own, the word _Producer_ printed proudly underneath it. Pete runs a reverent finger across the text, taking a steadying breath. It's a lot to hope for, all in one small 3.5 x 2 inch rectangle, but it's been keeping Pete going for weeks, months now. It's his silver bullet to slay the studio wolves away from his Patrick.

 _His_ Patrick.

He's only days from finding out if that's actually going to be the case.

***

Pete hasn't fussed so much over his outfit for an event since senior prom. He fluctuates between grey suit and grey hat, or black suit and black hat, or a mix of the two and don't even get him started on whether he should rock the white shirt or the black shirt. Ryan is less than useless, because he and Bob are co-habitating now which means he's ignoring half the photos Pete sends through to his phone of the various combinations, probably in favor of Bob-flavored blowjobs which Pete really can't think about right now and not just because of the Bob angle. Or the Ryan angle.

In the end, he decides black suit and hat with a white shirt is classic and why would he even contemplate anything else? He's showered, shaved, dressed and smelling good when the limo pulls up outside his place. He second-guessed himself endlessly on the limo; should he just opt for a town car, was it too flashy? In the end he decided grand gestures should be, well, grand, plus anything that makes him look more money at this point can only be a good thing.

It's not far to Patrick's and he's surprised to find he's nervous, feet twitching, palms damp, and it has nothing to do with the film premiere. It's just the backdrop to the moment he's been working toward for the last endless weeks. The moment which could end in a whole lot of public embarrassment and heartbreak, but he's damned if he's not going to follow through now.

Patrick looks breathtaking when he answers the door, wearing a charcoal fedora, with a wide grey band and a crisp black dress shirt and slacks. It takes all of Pete's self control not to ravish him in the doorway. It doesn't help that this is the first time they've been alone together in a non-work context since the day he stood on this very same doorstep and vowed to himself to do what he's minutes away from doing. The thought makes him swallow heavily before he can push a greeting past his tongue.

"You clean up real nice, Patrick." He grins, reaching up to adjust Patrick's fedora the tiniest bit. "I told you. _Hot_." He punctuates the statement with an exaggerated leer.

Patrick's cheeks flush to a dull pink, but he manages a small smile in return. "You look all right yourself." He taps the brim of Pete's hat in an approving way.

"Thanks." Pete's wide grin splits his face. He wraps an arm around Patrick's shoulder and walks him to the limo. As soon as Patrick sees the chariot that awaits, he snorts with laughter.

"What?" Pete retorts, looking wounded.

"Nothing. Really. It's just." He waves a hand at the shiny, shiny car, his smile threatening to eat his face. "You're not very subtle, Pete."

"Never was one of my strong points." Pete pulls the door open in a display of chivarly and takes an eyeful of Patrick's rear as he climbs in the car. Pete fidgets the entire way to the theatre, talking a lot less than usual and he hopes like hell that Patrick thinks he's fretting about the film and its reception, even though it's really the last thing on his mind.

By the time the large and unwieldy car finds its way past several checkpoints to the red carpet Pete's entire body is thrumming with adrenaline. He tries to remind himself that this is like any film pitch he's ever done, just say the words and paint the picture, sell it well enough and they'll buy it. Except he's not pitching for a film, he's pitching for Patrick, which is a much bigger prize and a much longer fall if he doesn't get green lit.

He can't even find two words to say as they exit the limo. There's a gamut of reporters and press to run before they get to the red carpet. It's early in the night yet, but the crowd that's gathered are already making enough noise to be noticed, shrieking and calling out to anyone famous or familiar. Pete and Patrick are neither, so they pass through with a minimum of fuss and only a scattering of flashbulbs. One of the cannier reporters for an industry rag drags them over for comment, but he's scanning over their shoulder the entire time, searching for a bigger ticket celebrity.

Once they reach the red carpet it only gets more hectic, falling in with other crew and minor cast to shuffle down the long run, corralled on one side by crowds and security, and the other side by reporters. The main cast are assembled in a scattered line down the side, talking to various press crews over a steel barrier. Gerard's down the end with Andy Whitfield, gesticulating at someone from E! and probably telling one of the half dozen stories he keeps rolling out on their press junkets. He's wearing the blazer Frank whipped up for him with the _Umbrella Academy_ logo on the pocket and he catches Pete's eye as they pass, giving him a swift nod and Patrick a knowing look. Pete had a good excuse to weasel out of his press duties tonight, not that anyone is going to miss him; the news hacks are always more interested in cast than crew anyway.

The slow plod down the crowded carpet is steadily unraveling Pete's hard-won calm until he's a bundle of nerves. He and Patrick are nearly at the venue doors, the end of the red carpet looming when Pete steels his resolve and grabs Patrick by the hand, pulling him off to the edge of the carpet and tucking them in behind a large banner, out of the direct line of sight to the press.

"Pete, what?"

"Just a minute. I just… need to ask you something." Pete's heart is chattering in his chest, his entire body quaking. Fuck, he feels like he's about to propose or something. Patrick looks startled, like there're words that are waiting to burst out of his mouth, but he doesn't say anything. He just waits for Pete to continue, wearing his _I'm humoring you_ expression that Pete's seen many times.

"You know that Decaydance Films, my company, is fully operating now. We have a premises, staff and a project lined up."

"Pete I know all this, I was there for most of it," Patrick explains with a touch of exasperation. He doesn't tell Pete to get to the point, but the insinuation is obvious.

"Right, you know it all because you helped me put it together; you were there at every step." Pete's voice is not cracking, but it's not as strong as he wants it to be. Patrick doesn't say anything, he just nods, like he knows there's more and he waits for Pete to say it.

"There's one thing we're missing, that we really need if the company is gonna fly the way I want it to." Pete reaches into his back pocket, pulling out the 3.5 by 2 inch piece of card and pressing it into Patrick's hand. Patrick glances at him, a question in his eyes, before he looks down to study the card. He runs his thumb across the Decaydance logo, before turning the card over so slowly it makes Pete's breath stick in his throat.

Patrick looks down at his name on the card in his hand, the word _Producer_ clearly printed underneath. He doesn't look at Pete, he doesn't say a word, just stares at the card, his chest shifting up and down with ragged breaths.

"You," Pete says, drawing Patrick's eyes up to his face. "It's all we're missing. "

Patrick's expression is blank, but for a vague expression of shock. It twists Pete's heart, but he digs down, pulling out the pitch.

"I know I can't offer you the kind of money you're getting from the studio, but I can give you that producer title, and the opportunity to work on some fucking awesome films, like Gerard's next one." Patrick brow furrows; he still doesn't look like he's quite comprehending.

Pete takes a deep breath, knowing once he says this there's no going back. "I want you to be my partner in this Patrick; I want us to keep making films together. The right way, with us both on the same side."

Patrick's mouth is hanging open and it's hard for Pete's mind not to go to sinful places looking at it. Patrick looks down at the business card in his hand and back up at Pete, eyes wide and glowing. "Pete, I don't know what to say."

"Say yes," Pete urges. "Please." His fingers tighten on Patrick's hand, his eyes imploring. "You know this will work, you know we're solid, fuck, you helped me put this thing together. It's where you're meant to be. Fucking say yes."

"Yes." The word falls out of Patrick's mouth without hesitation and it knocks the breath right out of Pete. Now that he's standing here, hearing it coming from Patrick himself, he's shocked the plan actually worked.

"Really?" His voice comes out far too doubtful, but Patrick nods and says "Yes" again, strong and sure and Pete feels like his heart might explode. He wraps his arms around Patrick in a hug that's more of a body-slam, squeezing him tight as his face splits into an enormous grin, relieved laughter spilling from between his lips.

When he pulls back to see Patrick's face, his grin is mirrored back at him on Patrick's lips and his eyes are bright. Pete stares at the plump bow of Patrick's mouth, thinking there's only one thing he wants more than the answer Patrick just gave him. If he tries to take it now he could lose the answer he worked so hard for, but he's never been one to balk at taking risks.

He slides his hand up Patrick's back, over his shoulder to cup his chin, swiping his thumb across Patrick's lower lip. The smile fades from Patrick's face, replaced with a hungry look Pete recognizes from three, no four, stolen interludes. Pete wets his lip and slips his hand up to the back of Patrick's head to pull him into a kiss.

Patrick doesn't fight even a little, he just melts into Pete, giving up his mouth, his tongue, and something deep inside Pete growls possessively. _Mine_. He breathes in deep through his nose, filling his senses with Patrick, the warmth where their bodies are pressed, the weight of Patrick's hand on his shoulder. It's hard to pull apart, but they do eventually, aware of where they are, how scant their cover is and just how many cameras are nearby in the hands of photographers who might just be tempted to make them newsworthy. Not that Pete cares, he'd happily see it on the front page; it's a fucking milestone as far as he's concerned.

Pete reaches up to adjust Patrick's hat, thinking there's nothing better in the world to look at than Patrick looking sex-drunk and kiss-swollen. Those sinful lips are curved in a satisfied smile and Pete's pretty smug with himself for putting it there.

He loops his arm through Patrick's and steers them back on course for the theatre.

"So Patrick, now you're not a studio guy any more, we can totally fuck right?"

"Pete, please tell me you did not just start an entire production company so that we can have sex."

"What can I say? You're really good in bed." Pete leers at him, complete with eyebrow waggling and he can see the moment when Patrick loses the fight and the laughter comes bubbling out. It's a beautiful sight, and one he plans to recreate as many times as possible.

When they get to the theatre foyer there's a sea of familiar faces waiting. Frank and Jamia, Mikey and Alicia, Bob and Ryan, Brian, Ray, James, Spencer, Brendon, Joe, Andy and the entire sound crew. Pete steals two glasses of champagne (balanced on red napkins) from a passing waiter, handing one to Patrick as they join the throng.

If anyone thinks it's weird that Pete won't let go of Patrick's arm, they certainly don’t mention it. They trade hugs and congratulations and while there are high nerves all around, it's not the sinking kind Pete's had on previous films. There's a quiet confidence that the night will go well, the opening weekend takings will be good, and it's the kind of faith Pete wishes for every film he ever gets.

There's an increase of noise and shuffle as the main cast find their way into the venue, signaling it's nearly time to get started. Gerard sweeps in, zipping through the crowd to find their huddle. He's all energy and an endless tumble of words that doesn't stop until Brian kisses him, fast but tender and it seems to reset Gerard back to zero, if only briefly. He shoots Brian a grin and steals his glass of coke, raising it in a casual toast.

"To the _Umbrella Academy_ , and to all of you for making it a movie I'd want to watch and something we can be fucking proud of." Gerard's grinning fit to burst as the various crew chink their glasses with his in a cacophony of agreement.

"And to us slaughtering that fucking _Twilight_ movie in the box office takings," Franks announces with a smirk, getting a mixture of cheers and groans in response.

Pete shoots a smile at Patrick as they touch glasses, already thinking about what he's gonna be getting up to when the business part of the night is over.

A voice booms out over the loudspeaker, letting them know to take their seats. Pete catches the brief look of apprehension that crosses Gerard's face before Brian whispers something in his ear to chase it away.

Gerard glances around at the various assembled crew, smiling wide and raising jazz hands as he announces,

"It's showtime."

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

There's a brand new whiteboard in the freshly refurbished Decaydance Films offices. It's double-sided. The side facing the conference room displays the pre-production schedule for _The Black Parade_ feature film, slated for release in summer of 2012. The side that faces the wall is mostly blank. Mostly.

In the centre of the expanse of white, scrawled in Gerard's loopy handwriting are the names _Gerard Way_ and _Brian Schechter_ linked with a curved line.

Taking up a large amount of space on the left hand side, in sweeping pen strokes written in a fit of annoyance because Pete wanted to get in _first_ damnit, are the names _Pete Wentz_ and _Patrick Stump_ in red marker, tied with a straight line.

Unlike the whiteboard that was in the _Umbrella Academy_ production office, all the names are written in permanent marker.

 

~end


End file.
